Lincolnshire Bomber Station

“Across the road the homesick Romans made,
The ground-mist thickens to a milky shroud;
Through flat, damp fields call sheep, mourning their dead
In cracked and timeless voices, unutterably sad.
Suffering for all the world in Lincolnshire.

And I wonder how the Romans liked it here;
Flat fields, no sun, the muddy misty dawn,
And always, above all, the mad rain dripping down,
Rusting sword and helmet, wetting the feet
And soaking to the bone, down to the very heart….”

Henry Treece, ‘Lincolnshire Bomber Station’

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