From the poem "Wings of the Morning" by F/Lt Jeffery Day, RNAS – WOFF: Wings of the Morning
The poem captures the images and impressions one will get from the next version of this stellar simulation…
On the Wings of the Morning By Jeffery Day
A sudden roar, a mighty rushing sound, A jolt or two, a smoothly sliding rise, A tumbled blur of disappearing ground, And then all sense of motion slowly dies, Quiet and calm, the earth slips past below, As underneath a bridge still waters flow.
My turning wing inclines toward the ground; The ground itself glides up with graceful swing And at lane’s far tip twirls slowly round, Then drops from sight again beneath the wing To slip away serenely as before, A cubist-patterned carpet on the floor.
Hills gently sink and valleys gently fill. The flattened fields grow ludicrously small; Slowly they pass beneath and slower still Until they hardly seem to move at all. Then suddenly they disappear from sight Hidden by fleeting wisps of faded white.
The wing-tips, faint and dripping, dimly show Blurred by the wreaths of mist that intervene. Weird, half-seen shadows flicker to and fro Across the pallid fog-bank’s blinding screen. At last the choking mists release their hold, And all the world is silver, blue and gold.
The air is clear, more clear than sparkling wine; Compared with this wine is a turgid brew. The far horizon makes a clean-cut line Between the silver and depthless blue. Out of the snow-white level reared on high Glittering hills surge up to meet the sky.
Outside the wind screen’s shelter gales may race; But in the seat a cool and gentle breeze Blows steadily upon my grateful face. As I sit motionless and at my ease, Contented just to loiter in the sun And gaze around me till the day is done.
And so I sit half sleeping, half awake, Dreaming a happy dream of golden days Until at last, with a reluctant shake I rouse myself and with lingering gaze At all the splendour of the shining plain Make ready to come down to earth again.
The engine stops; a pleasant silence reigns- Silence, not broken, but intensified By the soft, sleepy wire’ insistent strains, That rise and fall as with a sweeping glide I slither down the well-oiled sides of space, Towards a lower, less enchanted place.
The clouds draw nearer, changing as they come. Now, like a flash, fog grips me by the throat. Down goes the nose: at once the wire’s low hum Begins to rise in volume and in note, Till, as I hurtle from the choking cloud It swells into a scream, high pitched, and loud.
The scattered hues and shades of green and brown Fashion themselves into the land I know, Turning and twisting, as I spiral down Towards the landing-ground; till, skimming low I glide with slackening speed across the ground, And come to rest with lightly grating sound.
