It's boom and bust, all or nothing
Drought and flood, rain and wind
Sun and burn; turbulence and tours.
Too much to tell not enough time.
Adventures to boast about,
that can't be stomached by Wussies
who sit at home and whinge
about other people's ballsy flying.
What is the world come to
in a few weeks of the wrong kind of winter?
The runway's well watered,
offices are flooded
The wind sock downed
by Force Ten from the south.
I wake up in a dream and
want to dream again
because real flying is
so dangerous, so exciting
that it ought to be banned.
The cost of living, without flying,
is so cheap. Should I bother breathing?
I want to fly Morrocco
but mission creep may take me to Timbuctoo,
a real place that exists after all.
The French went on their adventure first
now the Brits want a slice of the action too.
There's no point in telling tall tales
to those who are glued to the telly
and swear on the bible of bye-laws.
It's the wrong kind of flying
(it ought to be banned) my neighbour said
Just before he slipped
on the right kind of ice, cracked his head
And forgot all about tales
of the marvellous microlight kind.
©Deepak Mahajan (winter of our discontent 2017-18)