DEATH OFANAVIATOR II

DEATH OFANAVIATOR II

Alone In the middle of the Atlantic, His twenty-five years of memories Kept him alive; The sun on the sea below Became the twinkling lights Of an hundred small towns; His plane another plane, Heavy with air-mail.

The Flying Fool Lucky Lindy

He was a boy In the house at nightfall; The funeral Of his grandfather’s arm A ritual solemn as flying; Or else stretched naked On a rock by the river, Drying in the sun, around him All that sparkling water. The Flying Fool Lucky Lindy

The hero Who landed in Paris, Who fretted for his plane As the crowd carried him Shoulder-high, who strode Like a giant across the earth, meeting The Prince of Wales, smiling, laconic, Was still that boy In his cockpit over the Atlantic. The Flying Fool Lucky Lindy

It saved him, That timeless journey, That isolated moment In the middle of his first fifty years; The whole of his lifetime Contained in those thirty-three hours: When they took his baby, Nothing could console him But that memory of sun on the ocean. The Flying Fool Lucky Lindy

The years, Following like bitter fruit, Turned to ashes in his mouth; The world That he had once held in his hand, Grew larger, more distant, remote; Disgruntled, he grew further into himself, His business and his America: His flesh became heavy and sad. The Flying Fool Lucky Lindy

The cancer, When it came at last, surprised him; He, having felt it grow for forty-two years, Wondered why it had taken so long: Dying, he realised with a pang of joy That he could still fly, High above the Atlantic, alone; ‘The Spirit of St. Louis’ silver, Catching the sun.

The Flying Fool Lucky Lindy

His obituary Appeared in all the newspapers: His burial was a family affair, Isolated from the world As when he bid his mother farewell Without journalists or photographers, Not knowing if he would see her again, Intimate and lonely, as the burial Of his grandfather’s arm had been. The Flying Fool Lucky Lindy