They might be wisps of white rose petal Caught in the keen, compelling twist of fate Faltering, aimless, in an aimless wind: Confetti, white and dirty white, Tossed out in scattered handfuls … And one man idle, leans against the open hatch, Through which the white horde poured And watches Crete whine past below, And in the mixed array of conquest His hearing does not catch the rifle snap, Sudden, faint his hands grasp deeply into nothingness, And in bewildered agony The dark soul drowns. He struggles as the troop plane banks; Unstruggling, falls in one slow turn - The horror dream personified - And the olives snatch him to their greenery. Our vague ears do not catch the death – weak cry, And someone blows the smoke shreds from his rifle mouth.1 It was shortly after 8.00 a.m. on the morning of 20 May. As ever in the eastern Mediterranean in the middle of spring, the weather was fine and clear with the promise of a very warm day. Then from out to sea came a continuous, low roar. Above the horizon there appeared a long black line as of a flock of migrating birds.
