Is it this humdrum vision of heaven
seen through the cartoon-eye of the plane
its drooping eyelid opened
that makes us so afraid
to fly? A landscape known to painters
who worked for weeks, years on their backs
to make chapel ceilings resound
with glory. What would they say
to see their inspiration laid so bare
seen even by those who, like us, fly
cattle-class, edified only
by flight attendants who mark the experience
with worn-out rituals before
the vessel turns to face the runway
which records each black tyre-mark of
every coming and going, who barely
bother to strap themselves in
before the sudden, unearthly acceleration
that stretches time’s seams near to breaking
and makes us airborne? Up here
the air hums, the trolley chinks its way
along the aisle selling synthetic perfume
and expensive watches while
like children, foreheads pressed against
the inch-thick panes, afraid someone might catch us
at it, shyly we stare and stare.
© Matt Barnard
Picture 10547696, photograph 1914-1918, image copyright Mary Evans / Imperial War Museum/Robert Hunt Library
Matt Barnard is a poet and writer. His collection, Anatomy of a Whale, was published in 2018 by The Onslaught Press, and he has won the Poetry Society’s Hamish Canham Prize and the Ink Tears national short story competition. He also edited the anthology Poems for the NHS, published by the Onslaught Press. His website is www.mattbarnardwriter.com