A
Suffolk Airfield
by Vernon Layton
Melton, Suffolk
In mists, black flaking hangar stands,
Where silent aircraft stood.
And weeds now cover concrete tracks,
Where nervous airmen fooled.
Sometimes a bitter wind moans cold,
Where sirens sighed and howled.
And hard the rain that beats the ground,
Where heavy bombers rolled.
Short breaks of sunlight strike old tower,
From which green Aldis flashed.
Now clattering combine harvester,
Where mighty engines thrashed.
The plough's keen blade cleaves earth aside,
Where props whipped air and whined.
And over cars where lovers kiss,
Night bombers slowly climbed.
And like, to hovering hawk above,
Some fell to fighters, prey.
Whilst others struggled back, and burned,
In Suffolk's soil to lay.
And what of grieving relatives,
Grown old, and mostly gone.
Who whispered prayers on reading,
"Just one last trip, then home!"
Instead, came black-edged telegram,
Then later, anguished tears.
Now fades his photo by the clock,
That chimed through long sad years.
A crumbling shrine, this field, to those
Who flew, too young to die,
In Rhine, and Ruhr, and places far
Beyond where earth meets sky.
As evening sun fires fields with gold,
Against dark hangar's line.
Somewhere, beyond faint moon and stars,
Brave souls of these men shine. |
