The Plane

Gliding through the clouds
the taste of the smoky air
the fighter, engine spluttering
the plane is a fleet by itself

The sanded wooden wings
help it glide majestically
the rounded wooden wheels
sitting on the dusty shelf
adored by all who see

At night it comes to life
the engines roar
it takes off
into the night sky

The maker, having passed away
it is irreplaceable, unique
made for me, and me only
never to be made again

My memories are stored there
my memories of my uncle.