Lancelot Steele Dixon memorial

Sited in Hay-on-Wye Cemetery, Herefordshire, is a truly extraordinary war memorial, It commemorates Lancelot Steele Dixon, a young man training to be a fighter pilot who died in a flying accident close to his mother’s house. His mother, who was a highly gifted sculptress, created a memorial to him, portraying him as Icarus who flew too near the sun and fell to his death when his wax wings melted. READ MORE

6 thoughts on “Lancelot Steele Dixon memorial

  1. High Flight
    BY JOHN GILLESPIE MAGEE JR.
    Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
    And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
    Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
    of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things
    You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
    High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
    I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
    My eager craft through footless halls of air ….

    Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
    I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
    Where never lark nor ever eagle flew—
    And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
    The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
    Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
    Notes:
    This poem is in the public domain.

      1. I’m not religious; but I think this is an appropriate poem for many young, and not so young aircrew lost in action, or training. Thank you for sharing this beautiful poignant memorial I’ve never seen, or heard of before Jennie. Just found your blog recently. Glad to see someone has the force to continue to remember those who have served. Told for donkeys’ I should write, bur pushing 60, still do very little, despite now being capable in two languages. Bonne soirée et bon weekend.

      2. Sorry about the late reply, I have been very involved in the 80th Anniversary of the formation of the Path Finder Force. I am glad you found the blog interesting. The memorial is stunning – and weird when seen in the flesh, so to speak.

    1. Thanks, Vicki. I hope you are well. I still treasure the letter your mother gave me of your father’s, December 1943.

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