And here I'll stay....

When she was younger than I am now
Four months great with
my mother in her belly
drinking in the neutral airdown by the Mersey where
the sky was clear.

She saw him.

The Corp had hardened him to a bullet
designed to kill.
No sirens came, no running
from the raining death.
Just a young man eyes red
in his gothic windscreen
propellar stopped by theft or stealth
for many stole parts and
sold them, black market.

Down he went.

Deep into the river
Dead before he smelt salt water.
Four decades passed.
My Nan sailed me across the Mersey,
told me how her
airman ghost had been made.
I imagined him jellied with seaside clay
while the music flowed
as an old voice sang
'And here I'll stay...'

By Faye Christiansen