re Gone Stalag
This poem pattern is loosely based on Rudyard Kipling's "The Song of the Little Hunter" and is inspired by Sierra Sutherwind's SSSWC fic, Gone Stalag. Her fic has an eerily displaced air, with Newkirk trying to make sense of an empty camp, on returning from a mission. Peter's chopping and changing thought processes are beautifully portrayed in the original fic. Go read it :-)
Thanks to Abracadebra for looking over this and for helpful suggestions:-)
The day is almost over,
When he drops inside the stump;
Sheds wood smoke and grey ash, the wind has blown.
He talks about his mission,
But there's none to hear his tale;
As echoes fade to nothing…he's alone.
There are headphones left just so,
Beside the silent radio,
A map upon the table, landmarks known.
The bunks are still unmade,
And not a single soul has stayed;
Not a whisper, not a murmur…he's alone.
~0~
It's a prank, a joke, a caper,
Till he takes a step outside.
No guards; the camp is hushed; as still as stone.
No movement from the kennels,
No one there to watch the gates;
Just huts and barbed wire fences…he's alone.
He grins; he can't believe
That he could run outside and leave,
And yet, his comrades' fate remains unknown.
It's where this notion ends;
He can't, of course, desert his friends.
He'll stay and he'll find out why he's alone.
~0~
A random call to London,
There's a lady on the line;
He smiles at her exasperated tone.
She thinks he's far from sober,
But he hasn't touched a drop;
It hasn't crossed his mind while he's alone.
He cannot make much sense
Of these impossible events.
Was peace declared? The Axis overthrown?
Perhaps he needs a drink,
He's had a lot of time to think
About his situation…he's alone.
~0~
Klink's quarters, feet on table
And a bottle in his hand,
A sweeping gaze; Klink's office chair, his throne.
He knows the smallest details,
As befits a master thief,
He can copy files and papers…he's alone.
Klink's helmet's gone… He stops
In sheer relief; the penny drops,
As logical and hopeful seeds are sown.
Klink packed, that much is clear,
He didn't simply disappear.
A more straightforward reason he's alone.
~0~
He whistles "Oh Britannia!"
Scans the woods, sees wildfire smoke;
Sips wine and nods, that's why he's on his own.
He speaks of Birnam forest;
Quotes Macbeth to calm his nerves;
No audience applauds him…he's alone.
He's drunk; as bottles crash
And fragile plates and vases smash;
He rails at news he's learned by telephone.
A secret store, a place
Too close to prisoners to erase,
But tables might be turned now he's alone
~0~
Another call to London,
He's the Phantom now; a sigh
Of irritation, clear by microphone.
The ammo dump's no secret,
Just too risky to destroy,
But far less risky now that he's alone…
He wakes when engines roar,
Jumps down from Klink's soft bed, to floor;
Salutes the path the bomber squadron's flown.
Explosions sound so near,
But this is not a time for fear.
Successful mission over…he's alone.
~0~
He sleeps, hears motors running,
Bolts from bed to bunk to bus,
Joins friends, an air of innocence is shown.
A quiet word from Hogan;
Fires were close, they couldn't wait;
He asks him what he's done whilst here alone.
He kept himself employed;
A nearby ammo dump destroyed,
Klink's quarters looking like a battle zone.
The cause? A bull? A bear?
Perhaps a lion passed through there?
He grins; his friends are back. He's not alone.
~0~