Night Flight
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,”
Those familiar words usually preceding bad news:
Delay, inclement conditions, engine failure, turbulence,
so you grin in advance of your subversion,
“According to local time by our destination,
and according to the clock on our panel,
it is just turned midnight, therefore I’d like to be the first
to wish you all a very Merry Christmas from all of the team.”
The people who will clap when you land break into applause;
some sleep right through it but one man raises an eyemask
at the disturbance, before smiling as he realises why;
in the backrows, some, who have had more from the trolley
than others, try to get a burst of a carol going,
it doesn’t catch on and it doesn’t matter.
This is the highlight of your jet-set life,
the pay-off of the airmiles, as the cabin crew high-five in the aisles
and you slip the switch back into cruise control, and smile;
as you start to come inland,
every seaside town is a selection box,
the dual carriageway a string of festoon bulbs,
each village a conurbation of baubles; from up here,
everyone’s got their lights up this year,
and you smile as you remember yourself as a child,
walking home from Midnight Mass,
scanning the night sky for blinking lights
as if it might be Father Christmas in his sleigh,
and you didn’t mind, even if they turned out to just be planes.
I went swimming tonight, and tried to think of a poem that might sum up my last 24 hours – the Mayor’s Carol Service, a trip to The Crafty Pint (beloved local micropub, now with its own baubles), waking up hungover, if not still a little tipsy, and fending it off with a two-hour dog walk, a wander round the Christmas Market, leftover pizza for breakfast, Liverpool coming from behind to beat Crystal Palace (allez allez allezzzzz!), hosing down a bit of old carpet (don’t ask) and then a trip to Lidl – but despite this embarassment of delights, all of which I enjoyed greatly, no poem was forthcoming.
Something about being around, or in, water though really inspires me, so by the time I was towelling myself down I had already started this poem; why a swimming pool at a health club on the outskirts of Witney got me thinking about pilots, I’m not sure – I think looking at my legs underwater made me think of a sinking cross-channel ferry, which in turn made me think about the ferries that must chug across la Manche as Christmas Eve turns to Christmas Day, and then – moving higher up the stratosphere – the planes that must criss-cross the skies that same night. And from there, I was here.
I think this song also owes a slight subconscious debt to a beautiful song called “I Work on Christmas Day”, by Whoa Melodic, which is available on another amazing Christmas album from the record label WIAIWYA (who I also sang the praises of last Sunday.) Give it a listen.
I like flying. A bit like being on the train, I find it a very poetic subject that makes me want to write something (and as with being on the train, I very rarely write anything decent when I try to.) I try to get out of the country at least once a year. I think it makes me appreciate England more to come back to it. Some years, I need all the help I can get in appreciating England, but then maybe that’s unfair – maybe it’s actually just the idiots running it (into the ground.)
I also like drinking on planes. I went to New York once and got accidentally quite pissed by the time I landed. When coming back from work trips to Frankfurt a few years ago, I’d often order a glass of wine, or prosecco, on my return journey, as a little reward for a successful trade show. It made me feel more like a high-flying international businessman, when in reality I was a fairly low-flying editorial assistant who couldn’t really feel below his knees. Good old Easyjet.
Luci and I have a friend who’s a pilot. He often talks about cocktails during Mexican layovers. It sounds like quite a plush lifestyle, but I’m not sure it’s for me. I struggle enough with driving, and at least with driving you’re less likely to either get blown up or crash into the ocean. I know that’s a pretty low risk when flying, too, but I think once it had happened once, that would be enough. Sometimes I think it would be a cool job though, even despite the hijackings.
A reminder, before I sign off, that if you’re enjoying this year’s Poetry Advent Calendar, you can pay it forward by giving a little bit of dosh to Asylum Welcome, via the Poetry Advent Calendar JustGiving page. They do such vital work and help vulnerable people feel safe, secure and part of our community, which is surely what we all want for each other and ourselves. Thank you to those who have chipped in so far, I love you for it.
Come fly with me. Sixteen days to go…
Owen x
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