Ravilious went to our school. He breathed
its woody polished air; tumbled down its stairs;
lined up outside its masters’ rooms. Enjoyed
the spell of Latin, of pigeons on the roof, the careless
slap of balls on wood, of hands across the face.

This and none of this we shared. For when I went,
he was long dead, gone into a wartime ocean,
into patterns upon lost water.

At 12, he was escaping to the Downs, sketching 
Wilmington’s Long Man, marvelling at stringy 
biplanes that danced the air. At his age, I helped 
weed its painted stones that pretended to be chalk, 
or was lost in Airfix or a Frog. I would wait for trains 
to pass the gates that kept our Hampden Park
From his, but he would be caught in their steam
– progress creeping from the city to the sea.

Our homes are all that’s left of those lost childhoods.
His was brand new and forever bears
his blue-plaqued name. Ours now boasts a car port
in the garden, I believe. But then, unknowing close
to such vision, skill and art. And I am
going back, to nothing of importance happening.

For his wedding day he smiles, steps from his water 
colour shield, becomes a husband to the man.
Biography replaces brush strokes, becomes a work of art
we all can own. If pictures are beyond our reach, 
then life is what is only ours. Not cunning bands of
Shade, perspectives, scenes of bedrooms, shops of
Curiosity, trees with winter branches lightning
Stab the air, and warship’s dazzle, screws 
and submarines. Only a lost plane in an Iceland
sea, and a death to share that brings us down.