I pulled up outside an airport, and she sat there, on display,
On a little pad of concrete, like a grounded bird of prey.
I was carried in an instant by that bit of happenstance,
To an airfield near a village, in the fields of northern France..

Once again I hear the bellow of the turbine's mighty song
As the waves of rolling thunder drive the sleek war-birds along...
Down the runway; ever faster, till they bid the earth good-bye,
And the gear locks into place as they leap headlong for the sky.

Rising like four homesick angels to their home among the clouds,
All around;...reverberations of their passing;... long and loud.
Four small specks far in the distance, vanishing into the blue,
Now there's nothing left but echoes and the scent of Turbo 2.

Beeping horns of angry drivers drag my mind back to to-day,
...From forty years back in the past, and half a world away.
The traffic light has turned to green during my reverie,
For both of us are obsolete ; The Sabre Jet and me!

. . . . . 439 Squadron RCAF Marville, France 1962.

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