Soaring Wings…
(In Boeing 707 over the Atlantic Ocean, going to the USA.)
(18/01/1971)
Soaring wings, narrowing 'til blocked off before infinity,
Protruding dust-bin pods jutting forwards underneath,
Curved greyness and dot rivets bearing me up, bearing me on.
Soaring wings running above white cloud banks and
Resting on a blue ciel above the cloud horizon.
Sun streaming through as steady as the drone and
Steady as the air-conditioned atmosphere inside.
Clouds change from whorls to ribs to barchans, back
to level fields with a rare unruly hump.
Change to mists and wisps to feather-bedded canyons,
To undulating hollows, all in white or grey.
Clouds move beneath, and through the gaps the sea,
Or mountain ridges, inlets, fijords and such,
With snow and cold and, far below, Greenland comes and goes.
Still I rush leisurely on, all forward heart and no regret,
Knowing I return one day.
'Til then I lie open
To the soaring wings and firmament above.
So here I was starting my overseas journeys. I look back to the first verse, "The Aeroplane". I was filled with a sense of adventure.