Cattle no longer graze the fields that spanned
Two north-western English Villages
Lush grass kept green by the unfailing rain
Gave place to concrete of a runway planned
To take the planes built in the USA.
A few yards down our lane, a field gate
Beneath the flight path of incoming planes
Would tempt a boy to interrupt his play
And climb to watch close up the latest plane
Circle round the Ribble losing height
Before it roared overhead to make
A perfect landing, while in the lane,
The boy, who'd learned to number B and P
Identified this as a Thunderbolt —
                          P 47.
Much vaunted for its high kill rate
Of Messerschmitts and Zeroes.

More than seventy years beyond that war,
In Evansville, where many Thunderbolts
Were made, the local paper has, above
The headline heralding the arrival of
The quaintly named Tarheel Hal,
A photo of a Thunderbolt, dolled out
With stripy underwings of black and white.
While, protruding from a fuselage
Of blue, the nose is encircled red and yellow,
Hues appropriate for peaceful times,
Unlike the camouflage of yester years.