First a Lancaster trundled its thunder,

then a Spitfire, in Battle of Britain

livery, looped-the-loop and victory-rolled

above the sunlit bay. On the promenade

many were waving Ukrainian flags.

An overweight mother of four – each small child

with her eyes – pushed a pallid young man,

the children’s father, in a wheelchair smoking.

They lived in one room in a defunct, backstreet

B&B, and had come for a free outing.

They stopped for an impromptu,

lingering group hug – but parted suddenly

as the Red Arrows exploded over the town,

their relentless roar filling the bay,

transfixing all of us, cynics and cultists,

with their aeronautical bread and circus.

‘Those who are about to die salute thee.’

Out, beyond the bay, one February night,

a family, coming for a better life,

their frail craft swamped by the incoming tide,

were all lost.