Last Flight (Poetry)

I'm told there's little point in visiting -
he wouldn't know me now -
he's locked away inside himself,
mindless that his sons are at the door.

He took it badly when she died -
closed up his life, withdrew
into a place they cannot reach,
there are no signposts, nothing mapped
and days stretch, endless, inbetween.

He flew once - RAF - the war
another world where he was young and strong
and she was there.
Inside, he's flying still - a speck
high in cloudless memory -
an eagle lost and circling the blue.