Flight (Poetry)

The air is his from here to the horizon —
no land distracts the keenness of his eye —
that distant line, slow-curving and unbroken
a flight path where the ocean meets the sky.

And, far below, the sea throws up its glitter;
thermals rise where currents merge and throng;
his shadow swims — a green ghost in the water
as breezes lift and bully him along.

A distant dot — a ship — one half-crazed sailor
who stands and shakes a weathered fist in rage,
identifies the bird as Death’s dark angel
and waits for Fate to rise up from the waves.

The bird glides on, his solo flight unchartered —
the route he takes co-signed by stars and sun —
there’s none to count the hours or the wingbeats,
we only guess what distance he has come.

For no aviator ever knew such freedom —
those pioneers who clamoured to be bound
to cold machines as science launched them skywards
but left their spirits tethered to the ground.