|
The frail old warrior is weakened now,
His reasoning and movement may be slow,
But his memories of different days, of better days,
Are strong, memories of not so long ago.
He flirts with the clouds on silver’d wings.
A spirit, unbridled, he soars and flies,
Another cloud caressed and left to blush,
As he hurtles aloft into the azure skies.
Defying the clutches of Mother Earth,
A thousand prancing horses at his command,
He could never forget, he was bearing a shield,
To protect his family, his friends, his homeland.
A knight of the air, honed to perfection,
Primed to take orders, not to reason why.
Prepared to kill with his eight machine guns,
And, maybe, just maybe, prepared to die.
Many of his friends and colleagues have perished,
Brave, young pilots he hardly even knew.
Mainly forgotten now, they have left him to carry the banner,
One of the Last of the Few!
He “scrambled”, he”pranged” and he “pancaked”,
He fought “bandits” with the cry “Tally-Ho”,
Deeds and words, long forgotten, belonging to,
“Chaps” who put up “A jolly good show”
But, he only has to close his eyes to take to the air again,
In the element where he was his own master.
He flew fast. His Spitfire flew fast.
But Time has flown even faster!
|
