Cold War

The summers of rockets

By Ray Wilson Henry’s father wasn’t one for simple explanations. Not that he believed every rumour, but because history had taught him that governments sometimes admitted the impossible, but not until long after they had denied it. And every night he sat by the wireless, newspaper clippings spread over his lap, tracing patterns through declassified

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The Dream

By Ray Wilson  Yes, we bravely spray the big wide blueWith chemtrails dripping toxic goo.And someday, maybe, if we’ve got the stuff,When we fly up into that final quiet blue,We’ll have this final consolation too: We’ll know that in this life We reached the very stars, yes, In the quiet comfort of the after-years,We will recall those happy

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