Jets are ready to take off for war; banners advertise the beauty
of cruel weapons. Sticky-pawed children queue to stroke
red-tipped wings, imagine parachute silks floating through
clouds escalating beyond the hangars. Fathers, who won’t watch
them grow, climb into polished seats, their specialist camouflage,
invisible in dark paintings, quivering under the thrust of propellers.
The sky dribbles vibrant colour, drifts through the scenery. Destination
isn’t important when fighting is; challenging the insupportable
outweighs the risk. For gamblers, risk is everything and nothing
at the same time; they can’t imagine not making their mark, won’t be
remembered with the wispy beards and skinny shins of old men.
The end is a plume of dust rising from the tombs of the bewildered.