Telegraph

First came men with stakes and measures, next the hole-diggers, then the pole-setters, last of all the wire party. Ox-wagons, heavy with felled trees, shook the dust from the earth.

The workers had such a thirst she feared they’d drain the well. Her silent husband counted the bills they paid him into the strongbox under the bed.

A young Irishman showed her the tiny machine at the head of the line. It clicked like a locust, devouring words.

They rumbled onward, straight, across the plains. She shaded her eyes until all she could see of them was a dot. Her husband flattened her, then, for talking to the Irishman.

Now, while he harrows the fields, she leans against the pole, one hand on her swelling belly. She listens to the wind humming through the wire, imagines the words chattering up and down, the swarms of unseen people in cities faraway.

Undelivered
They call us for breakfast in the half-light. Four more empty chairs today, Ma.

We scramble first around seven, back, refuel, rearm. They bring us sandwiches. We scramble again, then a third. At dusk, those of us who are left stay on readiness. They want us to fly at night now we are so few. Porter nodded off in his cockpit. When I do sleep, my mind still flies.

Peter presses his wedding ring into my hand. “Send her this,” he says. “I know I won’t be coming back.” 

I visit Harry. His feet are burnt, and his hands are burnt. His nose, eyes, lips. 

I watch Burrell nosedive into the waves.

We say we’re not scared, but who in England ever prayed for bad weather? We pray very hard. The sky stays blue as eternity. 

I will never send you this, Ma.

Glorious weather. That’s all I can say.