Flying

I wrote this little poem so long ago. Then, I wrote an instrumental piece of the same name. Somehow not matching these words at all. Well, that’s me.

Flying

Often seen as a romantic dream,
A wish to escape and fly.
To far distant places,
Of cities and races,
To see and believe our own eyes.

I have fled these shores gladly,
Many times in my days.
But one constant pain,
Is sitting in planes,
For hours and hours and hours.

It takes a week, for an hour to pass,
On a plane, in a seat,
All squashed up, swollen feet.
Cannot move, trapped and belted,
Watching people, who never settle.

Simple pleasures, taken away,
Cannot stand, cannot move,
Not enough room to stretch my knees.
Cannot smoke, breathe or sneeze,
I am trapped for years.

A glance at my watch reveals,
The agony of long distance flying.
To my despair, I have been in the air,
Only two hours, ten minutes , of twelve!

How can that be?
It seems like a week.
I have been deprived of the comforts of home.
Oh, how long will it take?
Oh, how much longer?

Derek Haines 21st March 1998