High Flight

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds_{and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of}wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark or even eagle flew.

And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

The Old Soldier

Medals such meagre payments for priceless years willingly thrown away,

Are taken from their casual resting place in bureau drawers,

And proudly polished to a sheen brass buttons once were given.

Then pinned to coats by hands less steady than when they held the gun

The faint notes of Reveille can be heard or are they just imagined -

As a final wipe is given to already gleaming shoes.

The dark blue tam is tugged to a familiar cocky angle

And the old soldiers, downing something to ward off November's chill, fall in once more.

The ranks are even thinner this year than each had feared.

A different foe - old age - aided perhaps by too many glasses drained to numb the painful legacy of war.

Has claimed another score or more of comrades

Bringing home to those remaining the realization that this might be their last parade.

Not time for that, the pipes and drums have sounded

It's effort enough to keep in step on a route that lengthens every year

Nor is it shortened by the knowledge that the crowd of onlookers has also thinned

And some have come to jeer, not pay respects as others did before

Some of the scoffers, too young to ever hand been touched by war.

Snicker when the bugler falters as he plays Taps

They smirk at each other as the Speaker intones "Lest we forget"

While a thousand eyes look up at them sadly

And five hundred hearts whisper, "if you only knew".

Tom Douglas.

Nothing is a waste of time if you use the experience wisely. - Auguste Rodin

Coming events cast their shadows before While dreams leave their visions behind For each of us nurtures the longings we have In our heart and our soul and our mind.

We draw inspiration from scenes we admire Find peace in historical homes And then in our minds shape a castle of dreams Whose blueprints are ballads and poems.

The structures we find so lovingly built By skilled hands now folded in rest Are vistas we treasure that always inspire Whose image remains ever blessed.

Where beauty and function, happily wed, Have weathered the passage of time The builders impart their message to us Still current but also sublime.

Alan W.C. Tustin