They were 'Proctors' and 'Jackaroos' in those days.
Single wing aeroplanes,
two and four seaters,
either open engines, or open under your seat.
Exciting for a seventeen year old.
I went up with the commercial pilots,
logging up their flying hours.
Take off! Climb! Spin on one wing!
Roll! - 'keep looking forward! ',
Stall! - That was the most terrifying thing of all,
not knowing whether the engine would start firing up again.
There were no parachutes, of course.
Flying along the south coast of England,
around the Isle of Wight,
looking down on a 'patchwork' of fields, farms,
towns and villages,
all viewed in 'miniature'.
Those were the days when one felt immortal,
and there was something very romantic
about pilots who flew beyond the clouds.
That death defying, daredevil image.
Somehow, you didn't seem to suffer from nerves
when you were only seventeen, you just had an appetite
to sample the great, unknown, blue yonder.
Now I prefer to have my feet planted firmly on terra firma.
But Oh! those times when I was once a 'High Flyer'.
What memories!
Chocks away.............! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
© Ernestine Northover
Ernestine Northover
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/high-flyer/
