A poem to John Meacock, and All who have dreamt of Sibson Skies

Turning Point

Staring down at patchwork fields
upon the face of God's green Earth
where tiny towns of matchbox houses
dot a landscape wide in girth.

Feeling power through soles of feet
of engines that can drive a dream
and vibrate flesh as alloy screams
through clear blue sky to lift the team.

Sensing fear of failure ripe
in eyes of introverted sight
and knowing that one slip in flight
could cost the round or end a life.

Flying dive within one's mind
in last-ditch hope of finding will
to turn that point that all before
have failed to turn through lack of skill.

Calming heart-rate; breathing deep;
jump-run tension nears its peak.
Stepping forward; locking grips;
tailgate exit not for meek.

Leader calling all to flight
into a bright and dazzling blue
that stuns with light to banish fright
of failing something new.

Slipstream roaring in one's ears
as aircraft shrinks and disappears
while deep inside the falling fears
are lost to dreams as first point nears.

Star-burst opens all around
ten thousand feet above the spot
where watching eyes are marking score
and rivals hope you'll miss your slot.

"Perfect speed is being there!"
not speed of sound or blistered air,
when all eyes lock without a care
in tight formations built from dare.

Seeing eyes upon one's face
as star-burst breaks for transit phase
and watching bodies turn in space
with practised ease and synchro'd grace.

Willing up from deep within
the skill to turn without a spin
and knowing that the line is slim
'tween those who lose and those who win.

Relativity slowing time,
Einstein's clock has lost its chime
and freefall wind is stretching face
as gravity speeds-up the race.

Slow-mo' turns in high-speed fall
with all eyes locked as Blue Skies call aloud.
Then turn that point that those before
had failed to turn and all are proud.

Screams are lost in slipstream blast
and never mind that we came last by far;
on the ground a cheering crowd of experts
owe us this round in the bar!

Wide horizon's distant line
marks the boundary of time where Man is split,
and those who walk can never know
why those who fly can never quit.



Photo by Stuart Meacock