Engines fired by the sparks of the night,
Lumbering, throbbing like a battered ghost
So thankful for a friendly coast.
Glowing and gliding, it roars without sound,
The rubber screams, as it kisses the ground,
Perfect touch down, on a deserted plain,
Now a corn field, a field with no name.
Night after night, mission after mission,
Helmets, visors, masks and ammunition,
The seven sky warriors from long past,
All knowing tonight could be their last.
I hear the fields, alive with noise,
Filled with brave men, some are just boys,
I see them walk, in their suits of leather,
Slowly and proudly, they walked together.
Where their planes rose, to meet the foe,
Now the larks rise, from their nests below,
Down the runway, only peace is heard,
Save for the wind, and the song of a bird
Time passes – January to December,
From Spring to Winter, the years drift on,
Every April, Every Easter – I will remember,
Cliff, Al, Pete and John, Nick, Stan and skipper Don.
By Eddie Coward
Written on visiting Fiskerton Airfield. In memory of his brother P/O Cliff Coward, killed in action on 11 April 1944. A navigator on a Lancaster of 49 squadron flying from Fiskerton