There are no strangers here, only friends who haven't met
       Brought here by a common bond and not introduced yet
       Look down the rows of faces to the host at our head
       All these sons of fathers and all the fathers dead.

       The battles took their lives as they went to meet the foe
       That filled the skies of Britain all those years ago
       They were only few in number against enormous odds
       But without complaint they scrambled to beat the Nazi gods.

       But as each day ended and the air battles gradually waned
       There were fewer and fewer fathers 'till only sons remained
       Now Biggin Hill lays quiet, the grass hanging with dew
       As each we raise our glasses and remember the few.

                                          Bob Ollier