Here you will find the Poem Lincolnshire Bomber Station of poet Henry Treece
Across the road the homesick Romans made The ground-mist thickens to a milky shroud; Through flat, damp fields call sheep, mourning their dead In cracked and timeless voices, unutterably sad, Suffering for all the world, in Lincolnshire. And I wonder how the Romans liked it here; Flat fields, no sun, the muddy misty dawn, And always, above all, the mad rain dripping down, Rusting sword and helmet, wetting the feet And soaking to the bone, down to the very heart . . .