Helicopter

Ninety four wind stirs his thin white hair

and mimics the joy in his eyes

as his wizened hand spins the tail rotor

when he was young he’d take his bike

off those plywood and two-by-four jumps

and wish he could just pull back

and aim for the sky;

Now near the end of his days

he’s built his machine, he straps in

no helmet, why bother,

he’s near the end of his days anyway

he fires the main rotor and makes his run

his heart still thumping like the two-stroke

that powers the blades, now at full speed

above his old head

wheels churn in the grass,

tensing for the leap

this time when he makes his jump

he doesn’t need plywood or two-by-fours

he’ll just pull back, aim for the sky

this time he’ll run

his fingers through the clouds

and settle his course at the sun.

Reviews

[Beccy]

Joan Collins once said, 'age is just a number.' How very true that is, and how wonderfully you illustrate here, that no matter that number, we can still embrace life to the full.

Really enjoyed this.

Beccy.

[JR]

Thanks Beccy! I appreciate it, it was a fun write.