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Title: The Horrors Of Flying
Author: Paul Bewsher [
More Titles by Bewsher]
The day is cold; the wind is strong;
And through the sky great cloud-banks throng,
While swathes of snow lie on the ground
O'er which I walk without a sound,
But I have vowed to fly to-day
Though winds are fierce, and clouds are grey.
My aeroplane is on the field;
So I must fly--my fate is sealed,
And no excuses can I make;
Within its back my place I take.
I strap myself inside the seat
And press the rudder with my feet,
And hold the wheel with nervous grip
And gaze around my little ship--
For on its wire-rigging taut
Depends my life--which will be short
If it should fail me in the air;
Swift then my fall, and short my prayer,
And these my wings would be my pyre--
So well I scrutinise each wire!
Then out across the field I go
In shaking progress,--noisy--slow;
And turn, until the wind I face,
Then do I look around a space;
For fear to-day is at my heart
And nervously I fear to start.
The field is clear--the skies are bare--
Mine is the freedom of the air!
And yet I sit and hesitate,
Although each moment that I wait
Brings to my soul a greater fear.
To me the grass seems very dear--
Dear seems the hut where dreams have crept
To me each midnight as I slept--
Dear seems the river, by whose brink
I oft have watched brown pebbles sink
Deep in the crumbling bridge's shade,
Where in the evening I have strayed!
My restless hands hold fast the wheel;
Once more the wing-controls I feel.
I move the rudder with my feet,
And settle firmly in the seat.
I start, and o'er the snowy grass
In ever quicker progress pass:
On either side the ground streaks by,
And soon above the grass I fly.
I feel the air beneath the wings;
At first a greater ease it brings--
But soon the stormy strife begins,
And if I lose, 'tis Death who wins.
The winds a thousand devils hold,
Who grasp my wings with fingers bold,
And keep me ceaselessly a-rock--
I seem to hear those devils mock
As I am thrown from side to side
In unseen eddies, terrified--
As suddenly I start to drop,
And when my plunging fall I stop,
Up am I swiftly thrown once more!
Like no great eagle do I soar,
But like a sparrow tempest-tost
I struggle on! My faith is lost:
My former confidence is dead,
And whispering fear has come instead.
Death ever dogs me close behind--
My frightened soul no peace can find.
I feel a torture in each nerve,
As to the right or left I swerve.
And now Imagination brings
Its evil thoughts--I watch the wings,
And wonder if those wings will break--
The tight-stretched wires seem to shake.
I see the ghastly, headlong rush,
And picture how the fall would crush
My helpless body on the ground.
With haggard eyes I turn around,
And contemplate the rocking tail,--
My drawn and sweating cheeks are pale.
Fear's clammy hands clutch at my heart!
I try, with unavailing art,
To summon thoughts of peaceful hours
Spent in some sunny field of flowers
When my half-opened eyes would look
On some old dream-inspiring book,
And not on this accursèd wheel,
And on this box of wood and steel
In which at pitch-and-toss with Death,
I play, and wonder if each breath
I tensely draw, will be my last.
The happy thoughts are swiftly past--
My frightened brain forbids them stay.
Dear London seems so far away,
And far away my well-loved friends!
Each second my existence ends
In my disordered mind, whose pace
I cannot check--its cog-wheels race,
Like some ungoverned, whirring clock,
When, frenziedly, it runs amok.
I have resolved that I will climb
A certain height--how slow seems time
As on its sluggish pivot creeps
The laggard finger-point, which keeps
The truthful record. O, how slow
Towards the clouds I seem to go!
And then ambition gains its mark at last!
The little finger o'er the point has passed!
I can descend again. With conscience clear
And end this battle with persistent fear!
The engine's clamour dies--there is no sound
Save whistling wires--as towards the ground
I gently float. My agony is gone.
What peace is mine as I go gliding on!
Calm after storm--contentment after pain--
Soft sleep to some tempestuous, burning brain--
The soothing harbour after foamy seas--
The gentle feeling of a perfect ease--
All, all are mine--though yet by gusts distressed!
Near is the ground, and with the ground comes rest.
Above the trees I glide--above the grass,
Above the snow-besprinkled earth I pass.
I touch the ground, run swift along, and stop--
Above the wheel my tired shoulders drop.
I leave my seat, and slowly move away ...
Cold is the wind: the clouds are grey,
I only wish my room to gain,
And in some book forget my pain,
And lose myself in fancied dreams
Across Titania's golden streams.
France, 1917.
[The end]
Paul Bewsher's poem: Horrors Of Flying
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