Warriors Of The Air

The brown North sea ripples gently
Sunbathing beneath a cloudless blue sky
The old pier stretches out on stilts above a lovely expanse of golden sand.
People are milling everywhere, in shorts, kiss me quick hats and smears of suncream.
White streaks on pink, sweaty, florid faces.
Binoculars in place and the smoke from the Red Arrows rainbow roll drifts through the sky above.

Here for me comes the main event
A distant guttural rumble and the three old warriors come into view.
The huge Lancaster bomber, death trap to so many, now is above my craning neck.
It's droning mighty engines reverberate with power, shake the very ground on which we stand.
The tattoos of her markings, a tribal image of an almost forgotten war. 

To either side of her a Fighter escort
The Spitfire and Hurricane look small and graceful 
These brave defenders of our nation.
While the Lancaster visited devastation and vengeance
These saved cities and protected houses.
Now they parade three abreast above the adoring crowd.
No showboating, just a purposeful flypast of celebration and remembrance.

I buy a small cone of salty chips, ketchup and vinegar
Stroll down the beach road past the huts heading towards the huge white, wind turbine counting out time in steady strokes.
I thank the Lord for those "Happy few" who preserved this life that we now have.

The rear gun turret is the last glimpse of the mighty war machine Empty now of a young gunner open to so many elements.
It seems now we can see a goggled head crouched behind the weapon preparing to guard Lowestoft for one last time.