A BOYHOOD DREAM IN TINY BITS

A boyhood dream in tiny bits,

In plastic bags for two and six.

The smell of glue and modeller's paint,

The spinning prop, the detail feint.

The names of the gloried past,

The few who flew the last;

The Spit, the Hurricane and Messerschmidt,

From each, the moulded pieces now made to fit,

Hung from ceilings, imagination's skies,

Bits of cotton their only ties.

Upon the sideboards and bedroom tables,

Rested on see-through stands, these fables.

With names of courage, these high speed knights,

Who joust in aluminium steeds behind circle sights.

Galland, Callan, Cloisterman, Bader,

Who still, in plastic form, fight this Airfix war.

From the mouths of childish builders,

Come the sounds of Merlins and Junkers,

The rat tat tat of mounted canon,

Echoing around the house at random;

And when the armistice is called for tea,

These machines return to reality

And are placed upon their chosen spaces

When beans on toast replace these hero aces.

Then comes the evening, whilst tucked up in bed,

Once more will we fly the skies, without dread,

Until sleep takes its final toll

And morning brings the dawn's roll call

With thoughts of two and six.

© Austin Edward (Ferd)Orchard

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