Spitfire Widow.

She has weak frail fingers and thin hair of silver threads.
Staring from her window, when most are in their beds.
Re-living heartache long ago, looking to the sky.
Watching for her sweetheart to come landing from up high.

She can still see the airfield where he took off that day.
Married for an instant before he was called away.
He told her that he had to go, to engage the foe.
And though she pleaded that he stay, she knew he had to go.

She stood all night, long ago, and prayed to see his plane.
But knew that she might never see her young man's face again.
An old woman staring as a ghostly plane rolled past.
A victory roll when angels took her out to him at last.

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