The Poetry Corner

The Dawn Patrol

By Paul Bewsher

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea, Where, underneath, the restless waters flow - Silver, and cold, and slow. Dim in the East there burns a new-born sun, Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, Save where the mist droops low, Hiding the level loneliness from me. And now appears beneath the milk-white haze A little fleet of anchored ships, which lie In clustered company, And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep, Although the day has long begun to peep, With red-inflamd eye, Along the still, deserted ocean ways. The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly, And watch the seas glide by. Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies, And far removed from warlike enterprise - Like some great gull on high Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space. Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone, High in the virgin morn, so white and still, And free from human ill: My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints - As though I sang among the happy Saints With many a holy thrill - As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne. My flight is done. I cross the line of foam That breaks around a town of grey and red, Whose streets and squares lie dead Beneath the silent dawn - then am I proud That England's peace to guard I am allowed; - Then bow my humble head, In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home. Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917.