The Watchers

The old airfield tower stands alone,

Every door and window gone,

Neglect and years , have shown the way,

To dereliction and decay.

Yet here within are old echoes,

Whispers, movement, soft and low,

From deep in time, a woman weeps,

For another, in eternal sleep.

Now as I walk through rippling grass,

Do unseen watchers, see me pass,

And do they smile, because they know,

The tired old face, from long ago.

Crumbling runways, over there,

Where our laden bombers, clawed for air,

For so many men, they came to be,

Dark pathways, to eternity.

Cracked old concrete, grass grows through,

The old dispersals that we knew,

Once a haven for the bold,

Now nostalgia, for the old.

I know now, with a chill of fear

That unseen feet are walking here,

I hear them, softly, pace by pace,

But I do not dare to turn my face.

The ghosts are gathered I can feel,

Close behind me, at my heel,

Though briars seek to slow my pace,

I must hurry from this haunted place.

Where the guardroom stood, a rusting plough,

Only cackling hens parade here now,

A few more steps, into the lane,

Then the watchers, can close ranks again.