Diane Hine (25 July 1956)
The bunker was blasted out of yellow
Ice, so cold it was topaz hard.
Private Smith was still at the scope.
Ice grain dunes tracked Moon 5’s custodian
Planet like indefatigable pilgrims.
Crests spliced orange slips to shadowed purple tails.
Intractably dry, yet threaded with life;
Silver capillaries milked the hydrocarbon taint.
The colours coalesced in the slacks.
Private Potts sat with his feet in a cardboard
Box. He nursed a mug of hot tea
Admiring the hue; an Earthy liquidity.
The steam smelt of old contentment.
He savoured the milk-tamed tannin astringency.
Jotted poetry rested on his knees.
Private Smith wandered over.
SMITH: What’s up?
POTTS: The direction opposing a source of gravity
S: Headquarters are mad
P: True enough
S: How can two men hold the line against the enemy?
S: I’m deserting tonight
P: Sensible idea but we’re locked in
S: I’ll climb the bunker chimney
P: I’ll give you a hand up then
S: What about you?
P: I can’t go
S: Why not?
P: Agoraphobic ankles
S: Really? Just your ankles?
S: What about your knees?
P: No, they’re very forward
P: How will you get through the dunes?
S: I’ve got a Cryocryptic Plan
S: You think I’m insane?
P: Not at all, you’d have no chance here
S: Goodbye Potts
P: Wait, I’ve got a poem
P: It’s called ‘Chthonic Analeptic’
S : -(
Say let the world go to pot but I
Shall always have my tea’
P: You don’t think the rhyme seems forced?
P: I enjambed it
P: I really hope you make it Smith
Poet's Notes about The Poem
the world may go to pot for me so long as I always get my tea’.
Comments about this poem (Bunker by Diane Hine )
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