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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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Air Mother

Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (2371 reads)
She talked of flying and of men

Air Mother

She talked of flying and of men
    Who perfected the aeroplane;
Her only child would listen - then
    His eyes would kindle to her flame.
"If I were half my age," she said,
    "I too would dare the crystal skies,"
Then tense he told he: "You will be
    the mother of a man who flies."

"The future of the world," said she,
    "Is in the hands of those who dare
To pierce the heaven's purity,
    The cleansing sweetness of the air;
Above all human spite and sweat
    Uplifted to the starry span. . . . "
Said he: "Old Lady, don't you fret;
    Your son shall be a flying man."

Then came the war. With heart aglow,
    Although with love her eyes were dim,
A lad with wings she saw him go,
    And that's the last she saw of him.
The desert mocked her dark despair;
    No hope, no sign, no stark surmise
Of gallant airman sprawling there,
    A vulture feasting on his eyes.

And now she curses aeroplanes
    And  thinks how happy we all were
Before men broke the golden chains
    Of earth and soared into the air.
And looking at the bane and blight,
    And bloody havoc wings have wrought,
One wonders, though by grief distraught. . . .
    may that poor mother not be right?


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