Last launch of the day – 2200 ft and two minutes after sunset, soft scarlet strands merging layer cloud into threads of valley mist to the south. To the north under magenta sky a carpet of fog shrouds the entire Thames Valley. Three score miles away to the east the lights of evening commerce queue into Heathrow, the lead disappearing softly down into the fog. Bright cherry clad fingers of Membury and Kingsclere soaring up through the mist; the lights of hamlets twinkling in the gloaming.
Below fellow aviators, momentarily my humble support, track slowly up the airfield behind headlamps drawing the means of my brief release from earthbound existence to its well earned place of rest.
I sit in crystal air with views beyond the Evening Star. I am the aviator, I am the navigator, I have no purpose or existence beyond my craft.
Everything is – just – perfect.