Fear of Flying

I am not scared of flying.

But I do fear when

Unexpectedly

The flying stops

While I am miles high

In just a thin

Tubular coffin,

Suspended in the air

By nothing.

When gravity

Petulantly

Reasserts authority

And life expectancy

Plummets like

Steel from thirty thousand feet.

Don’t get me wrong.

I know the odds.

Road journeys are

Statistically far

More dangerous.

I know the possibility

Of tragedy is slim.

(But then I knew the chance

That monsters dwelt

Beneath my bed

Was negligible,

Yet still I could not sleep.)

I suppose I really dread

That moment when

I realise what’s happening,

That soon I will be dead

But not quite yet,

That chance to think

Of all the things

I’ve not yet done,

To picture those I

Have not loved enough

Or love too much

To leave without

At least goodbye.

And as the terror

Digs its panicked fingers

In my soul

I’ll know that all my striving

Comes to this,

My epitaph,

“A life far too soon finished.”

Copyright Rupert Madeley 2010