The sky is blue, the air is crisp, the sun is falling but the day is bright. My senses feel as sharp as nails, as if they've gained acuteness lost. To the North lies the Gothic chapel, magnificent and eery. To the East a derelict factory, beautiful in its own right, proud but carrying an air of sadness. Beyond that the rolling Downs, green slopes, a white chalk ridge.
A bi-plane fuels from a bright yellow truck. A sleek red and white jet taxis in front of me. To my right a fleet of motionless Cessnas, their stillness compels my adoration. One of England's oldest airfields, it makes me feel so very alive.
A sign adorns the fence I'm leaning on.
Please Do Not Feed The Birds
Stupid idiots, I thought, these are planes, not birds.