Battle of Britain
Many winged years have now flown briefly by
Since young men gathered in that crowded sky,
And played around the tombstones of the sky
To gamble with their flesh as at the fair.
As pennies at the fair will slide to bring
A prize of sixpence for another fling
So the bright wings went roaring down the skies
For moments stark of truth beyond all lies.
Laughter echoed loud through the valleys of the cloud.
But in their mountain peaks Death donned his shroud
As hurricanes of fire spat. Only loss
In triumph perched upon the broken cross,
Around Man’s neck the friendly albatross.
And yet those young do seem to fly there still
For ever banking round a downy hill,
A throng just winging going not to kill,
But simply playing in the sun-beamed air
Without a flying glance at Vanity Fair.