The Ghosts of Summer 1940

In the lee of an English field, they lay,
In shallow graves of dank, dark clay,
The bones of those who dared to fly,
And etch their names upon the sky,
In wars cruel season, as raptors hunting,
Turning, turning, with all guns firing,
Too late to see, that death had come,
Tumbling aflame, fell from the sun,
To become the wreckage that remains,
Torn from its roots by rasping ploughs,
Nuts and bolts, tubers of rusty bullets,
The sleek machines exiled from heaven.







The leonine purr of Merlin engines,
That hunted high puffs of cloud,
Seeking prey to rake with bullets,
Slow droning bombers who came to kill,
The bark of elm and oak remember still,
Those lonely souls long buried here,
Who fell on fiery, folding wings,
So far from earth, homes and kin,
No poppies sprout to mark their loss,
Nor words on any white stone cross,
But the landscape retains their traces,
Amidst the silence of all such sacred places.