Ghost Flights
by
Mark Brotherton

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 a ghostly-unheard chime
The locks creak and groan among the water seeping in from fields
Ghost squadrons appear in their hundreds, unseen
The memorials beckon, sparkle and gleam
The towers still standing, now wide open
Those torn down, a shadow, a token
They line up, flares bring forth the needy
These soundless gestures 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 those returning home
Madingley awakes, counting back her own

If only in time
If only in the tortured mind
If only in memories, 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