Often

Often In the Cold War I was afraid from one type of war but this was born out of the death of another war. I feel I was close to some who were eternally lost. Over the dark moors they flew never to be old men but catch their end, a violent death being torn apart dying like a man. I wondered if on dark rainy lonely windswept nights their spirits were trapped on the barren north moors. If I could talk to them I’d ask what it like is out here amongst the rocks and the heather. I have no illusion at what happened here I saw something no kid should see - the alloy of their Lancaster melted onto rocks like liquid candle wax onto the flesh of a trusted lover. Death ruled here not love. Was it for our freedom they perished out there on the moors? I have to guess yes or their deaths are in vain.