A bank holiday in England.





We travelled to a flat land,
where sparrows eat out of your hand,
the weather turned English,
it began to hail cats and dogs,
running through the woods,
in search of acorns and hogs.

Just sunny enough to set the camp,
as darkness lit the gas lamp,
the youngsters looked happy enough,
as Steve sparked the foundry fire,
in a gazebo that was our mark,
waiting for tomorrow,
the linnet and the lark.

An old man had gone over,
near Mark's and left him,
361 small spirit bottles,
already we have drunk our way,
through his first holiday to Andalusia
and a trip to Wales with hot fuchsia,
their is even a little remembrance of absinthe,
that Van Gough would have thanked you for.

A night of ale and laughter,
that came after,
some Wot 4's in mortal combat,
sharing of tales under canvas,
the smile of a young lass,
ghosts make merry on the radio.

Men with grey hair,
thin well looked after bodies,
carried jerry's can,
from the fresh, clean, runway water tap,
thinking of oasis girls,
tall in their willow,
as grace and Aquarius.

The camp found most veterans,
of the long ago music festival,
just a small band who once went to Normandy,
with Lee Enfield and some cast iron pineapples.

They set of from here,
faces dark against the sun,
with a Mohican and a gun ,
hawser gliders cast to fate,
so that we could play,
ever merry the day.

A large navy jet,
sets its face against the wind,
a lone seagull does it with poetry
and a spitfire roars round,
with tiger stripes,
opening doors
and buying the grandson,
a small model glider,
that could lead him,
to the steps of Cranwell.

All the pride of the country,
now resting in a wicker chair
and the dream of that graceful winter build.

~