Mark Brotherton
11/23/2001 6:09:06 PM | Ghost flights
On a darken night like so many in East Anglia
A windmill suddenly turns to face the aerial ghosts
To wave home hordes of bombers
The ancient cathedral bells give ghostly-unheard chime
The locks creak and groan among the waters seeping from fields
Ghost squadrons appear in they’re hundreds, unseen
The memorials beckon, sparkles and gleams
The towers still standing wide open
Those torn down, a shadow, a token
They line up, flares bring forth the needy
The soundless jesters all go unheeded
By us in this age for we can not see
The bombers letting down, some still out at sea
An era gone, for of those returning home
Madingley awakes
If only in time
If only in the tortured mind
Only in history, these flights happen almost daily
Unseen by us, unforgotten by them
The continuous mission, a constant unheard drone
If only in spirit, again the Eighth tries to make it back home
-- Mark Brotherton
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