One Last Flight

A man sheltered from the sun one summer's evening, sitting on a bench beneath a tower of branches and leaves, the book by his side was a work of fiction and an old dog rested his head by the man's slippers.

A cool breeze sailed through the blades of grass and the birdsong followed.

The man looked to the sky as a bomber flew overhead displaying its colours, and still, long after it had passed.

                        

He imagined it as it dived and danced through the air, the jet engines roaring proudly as it pushed through the clouds and the beautifully painted metal shimmered in the light. The bomber dipped and dived and rolled, it climbed the skies and dodged the currents like a path of light in a hurricane, the air passed over the metal work like the tide of a beach over a stone, lost among itself.

The bomber knew no time, it had no destination and no meaning, it could go anywhere and everywhere, the man knew not where the plane was going except that it was on its own journey for one last flight, the bird of prey in a peaceful flight. The Vulcan sailed like birdsong one last, summer's night.

Tribute for my father, David Canning.