~ Hang-gliding (Revised) ~

For Jingle Poetry’s ‘Poetry Potluck’ this week, the theme is “a few of our favorite things”.  I have many favorite things, but hang-gliding definitely is close to the top of the list!

Image from Google Images

The whip of the wind across the mountain’s face

was fierce, but we were wrapped in thick layers.

My father tested heavy straps and snaps,

as the day bloomed a deep, clear blue.

Others were already up

and floating, with their wide, kite-sail wings.

They circled on thermals, moving

higher, tips tilted towards the sky.

We reclined in the harnesses, testing,

swinging back and forth

beneath the nylon triangle. Everything was still solid

and safe, on the mountain’s stone head.

Shuffling in bound tandem,

my father holding the cold bars’ steel weight,

we approached the take-off ramp, dirt worn flat,

from countless, pounding feet, and then

………………………………………………………..

……………………………………….

…………………………

…………

…..

The bright jangle of buckles was washed out

by the altimeter’s shriek, which echoed mine.

A free-fall moment in a pocket, then lift,

as the heavy main sail caught only air.

Mundane chains slipped away

and exhilaration floated us to freedom.

Bird’s-eye view, featherless flight,

patch-work fields and tiny, green trees,

broken by rivers of gossamer glass.

We didn’t plunge from heaven,

no Luciferian fall to Man’s earth.

We didn’t have to worry how closely we flew

to the sun — our wings would not melt.

All else so far below was framed

only by the horizon. It loomed larger

as time passed in a slipstream moment.

I sensed the bonds of humanity slip

that day, when I was twelve and flew with Dad.

 © ~ C.L.R. ~