St Eval, across the vale and valley
a church atop of the hill
marks an aerodrome now still.
Insects drone through the summer haze,
the stillness a deafening daze.
A heat wave shimmies in the air,
a poignant place of such despair.
Against the distant crashing surf
a few bricks on the old tarmac turf.
Where men once gathered for tea,
a place of routine sought with glee.
The day’s battles an open sore,
with nerves rattled, senses rubbed raw.
An air raid warning in tiredness they ignore,
in an instant a bombed burning furore.
St Eval, across the vale and valley
a church atop of the hill
with its graveyard very still.
In which dandelions and daisies prance,
long dead airmen’s memory to enhance.
Not far from where the same men danced
and a lone bomber came in for the kill,
now they lie together forever so still.