Is this the place old friend?

The runways gone, though I

still feel asphalt underfoot.

The scent of gorse, wild plants

have taken back their heath

and we, are just a memory.

 

Is it really fifty years?

Lets sit a while to drink

a toast to all the men,

who, as the prayer says,

“remain forever young.”

Who flew from here

or anywhere but never

made it home again.

 

I do not hear engines roar

the sound of air over a wing.

The burst of fire to clear a gun

nor chatter in the growing dusk.

The siren is long dead.

Now only sea birds shriek

and we are old.

 

Is this the place, our place,

where promises were made?

Have we been one since then?

Despite all, you are still

beside me my dear friend.

I only wish that I

could see your face.

Just one more time.

 

 

David Garlick, Victoria, March, 1995

 

For those who gave so much for us.