Then (the Mauls say), the only airport here

was Heston, where Mr Chamberlain took off

for Munich.  They had heard the peaceful cough

of his pistons from their greenhouse, whose bleared

panes crack with Boeings now so I can’t hear

their words about the war, but see the rough

remains of their shelter and the stone cover

to their well, and wish...   But my parents’ fear

permits me only to dream of those unseen

dark places.  Nightflights wink into the west

across our hawthorn hedge, towards a Heath

silence has stamped out like something obscene.

I go to bed, and with a tightening chest

lie there, wait, listen, and invent a myth.