Blue air and unpredicted sun
The damp grass drying at last
Let all the Chernobyls of our near past
The video missiles and the lasered gun
Come down on us, we will be found
Still here, as shadows stencilled on the ground
Burnt outlines of a single hour
When we enjoyed ourselves; though burn we must
And anything is possible, at least we were
Full flesh and bone, blood and decent lust
And that is all there is to us, trust
Nothing else; God’s gone, so be aware
This is the sum of it, the dry grass, blue air
The skin of a girl, our mutual dust
Fred Johnston, who died on 9 September, was a longtime contributor and will be greatly missed. This is the last poem he sent The Spectator.
