East Kirkby

Now these aged limbs of mine,

Take me back through mists of time,

Down this quiet village street,

Which once I trod with youthful feet.

And in this darkening village street,

Two blue-clad spirits walk and meet,

As wayward breezes sigh and mourn,

Through the wayside grass, and tall hawthorn.

The friendly people, friendly still,

The village inn, the distant hill,

The welcome lights of our home base,

Set within this tranquil place.

The airfield acres, vanished now,

Surrendered to the rending plough,

With growing crops, where once (inue),

That gleaming flare path, straight and true.

That sense of freedom, wild and strong,

The thrusting wings, the Merlin’s song,

The mighty cloud banks drifting by,

White mountains in that fateful sky.

Gaunt, bearded, spectre with the scythe,

Last enemy of those alive,

That spectre of our youthfull  fears,

Pursues us through the dwindling years.

The day is ending, we must part,

We who still young in heart,

And you old friend, as we all know,

Just as you were, long years ago.