English summers, often damp, can invoke long stifling twilights

Nothing landbound needlessly moves

Contrails crayon across the sky

So many, this close to London’s hub

Distantly, the buzz of a low plane, pleasure rider reaching up

Into the realm of the starlings as they sussurate

A car comes past in the lane droning away round the curves

Here the runway cross remains

The old tower still stands intact

As ponies munch and cattle chew

Larks lurk in the grass where bombers once turned

Occasional ironwork testament to hydrants and gun emplacements

War and weapons layered over by Nature and time

But, as the dark deepens,  the lost come home

Tearing blazing incandescent screams rustle up drowsy birds

Look up and the dazzling burning blurs past

Metal screeches as it tears apart, each time the same

One last attempt at landing whole, at bringing the crate home

So wanting to see sweethearts and Blighty again

Then gone, back to oblivion

The burning pilot saluted you as he passed