Departure Point

It is 1929: a flying instructor and would-be aircraft builder falls for one of his pupils

She'd be away with someone else

unless he delayed her at the door.

They fell in step like an awkward waltz

and he must learn to turn her or

she'd be away with someone else.

There was something more he cared about -

a thing he was allowed to say.

If he showed her this, might she work out

(before she smiled and slipped away)

there was something more he cared about?

He welded better than he drew -

his 'plane was fashioned more than planned -

but in his pocket he'd a few

rough sketches: she would understand

he welded better than he drew.

His sketches worked as well as etchings

wise girls don't come up to see.

To hold her gaze as time kept stretching

later than she'd meant to be

his sketches worked as well as etchings.

What lay on back shelves of his dreams -

the notes and pencilled plans he stored -

might have stayed as unbuilt schemes

if, politely, she'd ignored

what lay on back shelves of his dreams.

She should have been with someone else

but she had stayed with him instead.

They spoke of flight but his hasty pulse

half deafened him to what they said:

she should have been with someone else.

Going Solo

It is 1929: a trainee pilot faces a choice between her husband and her flying instructor.

Free of both of them.

Free as air

because of both of them.

Inigo who bought the lessons -

dutiful, attentive,

always wanting her to have things

as if they were her right

and with no fuss on either side.

A gentleman is not a showman.

Miles who gave the lessons -

deferential but impatient,

in wanting her to do things.

Until she got them right

he found it hard to hide frustration.

A showman rather than an actor

Now his solid presence

and his big firm hands,

always ready to take charge,

were missing for the first time

from the other cockpit.

Now she must depend

on what he'd told her

until she learned dependence

on herself.

That's dual control

she murmured.

Now the Avro 504 was hers.

All hers.

The long and upswept wooden skid

bolted in between the wheels

would stop it nosing-over

when she opened up the throttle.

Child's Play

This game's rules

scarcely need elaboration:

they'll be forgotten

by both participants and lunchtime.

The pleasure is

to spell out loud the solid facts

of fantasy:

the time the shop is going to open;

the special chairs

where the customers must sit

to have their fittings;

the yellow of that unseen door

whose silent bell

gains entry to an empty stockroom

from which to fetch

silver slippers on a coffee tray.