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The Horrors of Flying

by Paul Bewsher

The day is cold; the wind is strong;

And through the sky great cloud-banks throng,

While swathes of snow lie on the ground

O'er which I walk without a sound,

But I have vowed to fly to-day

Though winds are fierce, and clouds are grey.

My aeroplane is on the field;

So I must fly - my fate is sealed,

And no excuses can I make;

Within its back my place I take.

I strap myself inside the seat

And press the rudder with my feet,

And hold the wheel with nervous grip

And gaze around my little ship -

For on its wire-rigging taut

Depends my life - which will be short

If it should fail me in the air;

Swift then my fall, and short my prayer,

And these my wings would be my pyre -

So well I scrutinise each wire!

Then out across the field I go

In shaking progress, - noisy - slow;

And turn, until the wind I face,

Then do I look around a space;

For fear to-day is at my heart

And nervously I fear to start.

The field is clear - the skies are bare -

Mine is the freedom of the air!

And yet I sit and hesitate,

Although each moment that I wait

Brings to my soul a greater fear.

To me the grass seems very dear -

Dear seems the hut where dreams have crept

To me each midnight as I slept -

Dear seems the river, by whose brink

I oft have watched brown pebbles sink

Deep in the crumbling bridge's shade,

Where in the evening I have strayed!

My restless hands hold fast the wheel;

Once more the wing-controls I feel.

I move the rudder with my feet,

And settle firmly in the seat.

I start, and o'er the snowy grass

In ever quicker progress pass:

On either side the ground streaks by,

And soon above the grass I fly.

I feel the air beneath the wings;

At first a greater ease it brings -

But soon the stormy strife begins,

And if I lose, 'tis Death who wins.

The winds a thousand devils hold,

Who grasp my wings with fingers bold,

And keep me ceaselessly a-rock -

I seem to hear those devils mock

As I am thrown from side to side

In unseen eddies, terrified -

As suddenly I start to drop,

And when my plunging fall I stop,

Up am I swiftly thrown once more!

Like no great eagle do I soar,

But like a sparrow tempest-tost

I struggle on! My faith is lost:

My former confidence is dead,

And whispering fear has come instead.

Death ever dogs me close behind -

My frightened soul no peace can find.

I feel a torture in each nerve,

As to the right or left I swerve.

And now Imagination brings

Its evil thoughts - I watch the wings,

And wonder if those wings will break -

The tight-stretched wires seem to shake.

I see the ghastly, headlong rush,

And picture how the fall would crush

My helpless body on the ground.

With haggard eyes I turn around,

And contemplate the rocking tail, -

My drawn and sweating cheeks are pale.

Fear's clammy hands clutch at my heart!

I try, with unavailing art,

To summon thoughts of peaceful hours

Spent in some sunny field of flowers

When my half-opened eyes would look

On some old dream-inspiring book,

And not on this accurs'd wheel,

And on this box of wood and steel

In which at pitch-and-toss with Death,

I play, and wonder if each breath

I tensely draw, will be my last.

The happy thoughts are swiftly past -

My frightened brain forbids them stay.

Dear London seems so far away,

And far away my well-loved friends!

Each second my existence ends

In my disordered mind, whose pace

I cannot check - its cog-wheels race,

Like some ungoverned, whirring clock,

When, frenziedly, it runs amok.

I have resolved that I will climb

A certain height - how slow seems time

As on its sluggish pivot creeps

The laggard finger-point, which keeps

The truthful record. O, how slow

Towards the clouds I seem to go!

And then ambition gains its mark at last!

The little finger o'er the point has passed!

I can descend again. With conscience clear

And end this battle with persistent fear!

The engine's clamour dies - there is no sound

Save whistling wires - as towards the ground

I gently float. My agony is gone.

What peace is mine as I go gliding on!

Calm after storm - contentment after pain -

Soft sleep to some tempestuous, burning brain -

The soothing harbour after foamy seas -

The gentle feeling of a perfect ease -

All, all are mine - though yet by gusts distressed!

Near is the ground, and with the ground comes rest.

Above the trees I glide - above the grass,

Above the snow-besprinkled earth I pass.

I touch the ground, run swift along, and stop -

Above the wheel my tired shoulders drop.

I leave my seat, and slowly move away ...

Cold is the wind: the clouds are grey,

I only wish my room to gain,

And in some book forget my pain,

And lose myself in fancied dreams

Across Titania's golden streams.

France, 1917.