TIN PLANE

I, a small little urchin
Once had a toy
A small airplane of tin
The hinges of which
Often bruised my
Then baby skin.

Unmindful of this wounding behaviour
(As is the wont of those
Whom you clutch as very dear)
I, with my tiny soul
Placed permanently in the painted
Face of a pilot
Strapped in a two dimensional hole
Captain of this toy tin-plane
In fair weather or in rain
Rolled and looped
Vertically climbed
Then down
I swooped.

Looked up the sky
Prayed very-very innocently,
God!
I don’t want no bread
But please
Could I
Fly?

Now at a “ripe”
Age of  forty four
(Those at forty three
Perhaps wouldn’t agree
For a start
To the “ripened” part)!!!!
Leaving in trail the
Melodious roar.

Of thousands pounds of
Engine thrust
Being spewed by
The constant burst
Of turbofans and turbojets.
Of sleek Jaguars and similar cats.

With a few thousand of hours
As I look
In my dog eared logbook.
In airplanes of very many kind
Made of tin but most refined.

I sit in a chair
Now satisfied
Pray one must
As I then tried.


Urchins, you see
Are battered here
But always best heard
By One
Up there.