Fanthorpe, "Hang-gliders in January"

Like all miracles, it has a rational
Explanation; and like all miracles, insists
On being miraculous. We toiled
In the old car up from the lacklustre valley, 
Taking the dogs because somebody had to, 
At the heel of a winter Sunday afternoon

Into a sky of shapes flying:
Pot-bellied, shipless sails, dragonflies towering
Still with motion, daytime enormous bats, 
Titanic tropical fish, and men,
When we looked, men strapped to wings, 
Men wearing wings, men flying

Over a landscape too emphatic 
To be understood: humdrum fields
With hedges and grass, the mythical river,
Beyond it the forest, the foreign high country. 
The exact sun, navigating downwards
To end the revels, and you, and me, 
The dogs, even, enjoying a scamper, 
Avoiding scuffles.

It was all quite simple, really. We saw
The aground flyers, their casques and belts
And defenceless legs; we saw the earthed wings
Being folded like towels; we saw
The sheepskin-coated wives and mothers
Loyally watching; we saw a known,
Explored landscape by sunset-light,

We saw for ourselves how it was done, 
From takeoff to landing. But nothing cancelled
The cipher of the soaring, crucified men, 
Which we couldn't unravel; which gave us 
Also, somehow, the freedom of air. Not
In vast caravels, triumphs of engineering, 
But as men always wanted, simply,
Like a bird at home in the sky. 


U.A. Fanthorpe

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