Bard Hill

A routine raid on the Leuna  refinery,

bombs dropping from the darkness,

a demoralising rain

bringing destruction and death,

sapping the will of a half-beaten enemy.

A difficult return,

bad weather, poor visibility,

redirections to another airfield;

but as we approached the Norfolk coast,

we started to relax a little,

and let our thoughts turn to other things –

the weekend leave,

the beer and skittles,

and the Lincoln girls who would love a man in uniform

if given half a chance

and would bend over backwards to snare him

at the dance on Saturday night;

and who knows when all this will be over?

Those thoughts were the last we had

as our plane collided with the radar pylon

here on Bard Hill -

a  prang that could be heard

as far away as Holt.

The dance went on without us, and the war came to an end.

There were no bluebirds over the cliffs of Cromer,

no tomorrows,

no wait and sees –

just faded silk poppies

fluttering  in the breeze

as the blackbird and the barley-bird

offer up their songs

to an empty sky.