Its not nice trying to fly,
flapping arms soon weary
in cold air that blurs eyes,
shrouding landscapes in misty blue and grey.
An old lady,
startled by the grotesque shape
bulging from your silk lined pilot suit,
slices through her herbaceous disorders,
while a policeman, sensing trouble,
turns his feet, to see souls
floating round the street end.
Yet the problem still remains.
How on earth can you send yourself skywards
then regain your ground, propelled between
chip shop, bus stop and bright lit public house,
scared of heights yet filled with hot air?