1939 Poem by John Gallar

Sticky fog patches bedew squinty eyes,
Faint wail of skylark falls deep into heart...
Smoke from burned quitch grass licks face with a tart,
Leaves whipper prayers falling from the skies...
Autumn begins its mystery design...
What autumn is it? Is it 39?
Innocent shadows crawl over the trees,
Children catch sun spots in a morning play;
Suddenly rattling...Bullets spatter clay...
Do they pretend that they gap for the breeze?
Who are these children? No, they are not mine...
What autumn is it? Is it 39?
Panic and anguish; Alone, all alone!
Blotted wings bursting with flickering flames...
Hundreds - all running in last mortal games...
The skies are empty; the shadows are gone...
Autumn is dandling a baby from whine...
What autumn is it? Is it 39?
Sunset turns misty, chills run down the spine,
Stubborn time trickles... Why?...Why 39?