Poetry

This really happened. I was doing a poetry evening class. I sent the poem to Sir Adrian Swire who owned the land and was being visited by the pilots. He wrote me back a very nice letter.
This is the original. It’s a bit flowery. I rewrote it later.

The bright and watery winter Sun was peeping through the Clouds
As I walked over Hackpen Hill away from bustling crowds
It was then I saw a wondrous sight within that quiet shire
Parked down upon a farmer's strip: A Mustang and Spitfire
They stood on that November field, inanimate but cavalier
Those graceful forms that art and science unitedly did bear
And every curve and every line was through its purpose fashioned
As function gave to those contours a spirit borne of passion
And even though those Merlins roared before I took a breath
I know my liberty I owe to those who flew with death
They flew for love of flying, they fought for fellow man
Their blood is spilt upon those wings, across that vital span
I sat and watched and listened as those massive props revolved
Then with a cough and burst of smoke the silence did dissolve
In deep melodious engine song that swirled in vortex of delight
And now those aircraft seemed intense with eagerness for flight.
And when those fighters slipped earth's grasp and climbed the bracing heights
They stole my breath as they streaked up in lithe and nimble flight
The two planes now were living - as unlikely as that seems
Those blessed pilots merged to be at one with each machine
The beauty and the power and the prowess of their movement was poetry, was fervoured joy - to me without improvement.
That crescendo as they swept low (and blew the sheep away!)
The sight and sound will stay with me until my dying day.