[Graham King]

Portslade's what we call it now -
A place partaken of at risk.
Memorial airship, passing; brisk
Our pilgrimage, fulfilling vow.
The fallen we will not forget,
Nor turn our eyes from that void place
Where nemeses sped down from space -
Its seared soil radioactive yet.
Each generation sloughs its due
Of mutant burden; some survive,
Though none can truly say we thrive -
We plucky band, we lucky few.
That etymology, laid bare?
It's 'port' and 'slaYed - [wh]Y?': portmanteau
In sound; in word-upheaval, woe.
We're left; they're dead. We weep, mid-air.