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.