Barton Haunted Air Field Uk

Barton Haunted Air Field Uk

We stood with the camera in hand at Barton Airbase. I imagined the deaths—the aircraft that went down during the war. The watchtower stood dark and empty. An eerie feeling pinched at my skin like a swarm of insects biting in rhythm.

I couldn’t help it—I had to lift the camera. Snap after snap, in the stillness and dark. I felt the spirits of dead soldiers watching.

The stars seemed unusually high above us. You said, “Let’s go. It’s cold here. I don’t like it.”

Back home, I slid the memory card into the PC. Just as I’d felt—there they were. Orbs. Clusters of them, exactly where the chill had sunk deepest into my bones.

How many soldiers stood there watching me? Did they know they were dead? Were they whispering Help us?

War. Horrible war.

God bless the spirits at Barton Airfield.

My Poem Summing Up My Words

Barton Airfield

First written in 2004 by myself Marie381Uk

They come in quiet, boots without weight,

their faces gone soft at the edges of night,

where floodlights once roared and vanished in smoke,

now nothing but wind and the watchtower’s bite.

Engines hum where no plane flies,

a low growl stitched in the air’s old skin.

Cold creeps in like a held breath

and the walls remember everything.

I stood there, camera in hand,

fingers frozen, snapping shadows in the dark,

felt their eyes—unblinking, watching, waiting,

spirits wrapped tight in the night’s stark arc.

Orbs danced on the memory card,

glowing where the chill sank deep,

silent witnesses to what cannot speak,

guardians of a past that will not sleep.

Ghosts of airmen walk the grass,

not waving, not angry, just there.

Not lost, not resting, just looped

like dog tags snagged in open air.

Maybe they don’t know they died.

Maybe they wait for orders still.

Maybe the sky they flew cracked open

and they fell through time, quiet and chill.

War carved its scars in bone and stone,

and here the silence shouts their names.

God bless the souls who linger here,

anchored to Barton’s haunted plains.

War plain Poetry story

Haunted Warplain

This land was never meant to rest,

where engines roared and bombs would test

the courage of those young and brave,

who gave their all, who never gave.

The grass still whispers footsteps lost,

echoes caught in cold and frost.

No flags wave here, no cheers sound,

just silence stretched across the ground.

At dusk, the air grows thin and sharp,

and shadows rise like broken hearts.

You feel the chill, a sudden cold,

like stories left too long untold.

Ghosts don’t scream or shout or fight,

they wait in silence, out of sight.

Watching from the cracked old tower,

guardians of the final hour.

No anger burns within their eyes,

just quiet truth beneath dark skies.

They walked these fields in life and death,

now held in time, a frozen breath.

You hear a hum, a distant drone,

though no planes fly above this stone.

The wind carries voices thin,

whispers of where it all begins.

Orbs flicker where the shadows lie,

soft lights caught in the midnight sky.

They float like memories, pale and clear,

proof that something lingers here.

This ground is heavy, full of weight,

with stories locked behind death’s gate.

And if you stop and hold your breath,

you’ll feel their presence, near as death.

War took much, left more behind,

but here the lost refuse to unwind.

So tread with care, speak soft, stay still.

This haunted warplain holds their will

At Barton Airfield they linger inspirit still.