In the marsh the curlews cry

Beneath the empty bowl of sky,

Beneath the sun and flying cloud

Earth my grave and mud my shroud.

For forty years I've quietly lain

In the wreckage of my plane.

Baled out, they said, or Lost at Sea

But no-one came in search of me.

A distant ploughman drives his team,

And rushes rattle in the stream:

In summer time the cattle tread

Heavy-footed overhead.

Yet somehow in these bones I know

Man will devise machines that show

Where metal lies, and he will trace

My plane in its last resting place.

Then will the lonely waiting cease

And these tired bones will rest at peace.

K.D. Clarke

Sent into us by John Hayes July 2015