Coming in to Land
Twenty minutes out from Base we begin
a glide on course from ten thousand feet.
Up here it is hot in the sun, but we can see
on the ground it will be dull. Broken layers
of stratocumulus are waste lands stretching
as far as the horizon; they are at two thousand,
and won’t worry us for a while yet. We live
by death’s negligence – I believe that, and think
of Don, although there is nothing to say; falling
short makes me despise myself. With airspeed
at 85 mph, the surging roar has ceased and now
the old kite rests on the air slightly nose-down
and sighing. No vibration; both engines muted;
the props meandering round minute after minute
while the distant world imperceptibly approaches
with small clouds anchored like white Zeppelins
and flashing lakes and river-bends beyond them.
I never realised how much my life involved him –
things I remember seem endless, the whole region
is loaded and rich with them: Friesians lifting
their heads from grazing; cottage washing lines;
dust following a plough. All these sights become
less real and more as I know them. Shall I see Jean
when I’m home on leave? When Mrs P let me know
Don had volunteered for airborne work overseas
I said ‘Jean will be sorry’, but ‘Not sorry, proud’
came the answer; that soon brought me (betraying
my own youth) to youth’s error: what if he’s killed?
Here we go – sinking over the road, across the field,
skimming the hedge, and straight to the beginning
of the runway. It nears; it broadens; it rises
to become hard ground rushing past. Our engines
barely murmur, but we still rest on the air while grass
streams away on either side. At last comes the crunch
of first contact. We bounce a little and bump again –
bump (pause) bump, bump bump bump bump –
settling in quicker until we are easy. A grand life.
Sooner or later we shall come into line with the rest
and stop. Then the engines will cut, the props jerking
stickily to a standstill. Then the silence will sing to me.
Page(s) 5
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