At 30,000 feet
(1956)
A fleck of silver against the darkening blue
The hollow cylinder rockets under the sky’s dome
Unavailingly pursued by the thunder of its sound
Until that final scarlet reverberation;
Like the telegraph's words burning meaninglessly
Upon slip of yellow paper, and the explosion
Of grief within the mind, this fire and thunder
Do not quite coincide:
The eyes of the watcher see the disaster
Before its voice awakens in his ear.
Nothing that has meaning descends again to earth;
The lighted runway waits vainly
To feel the screeching tyres;
Customs officials will not search this baggage
That downward flakes in dust on silent fields;
Hands cannot clasp, nor lips press
What is now blown weightlessly about the sky.
There was a moment when they drowsed
Deep in luxurious chairs;
Read magazines, wrote letters;
When stewardesses served coffee and liqueurs,
And dirty dishes were neatly stacked
In the bright kitchen.
No other moment followed;
Time stopped. There was nothing…
No doubt there is a meaning to this event;
But not one that can be read
On the white face of the farmer
In mid-furrow gazing upward from his plough
Nor in the burned minds of those who wait
At the airport barrier.
Note from the author
About 'At 30,000 Thousand Feet'
The idea arose when I was walking across a golf course one early Autumn day (in the early 1950s), hearing a jet aircraft and experiencing for the first time being unable to trace it from its sound, which was coming from another part of the sky. This led to the idea that a shocking experience like the act of opening and reading a telegram of a loved-one's death, is only followed later by the explosion of its meaning. I hasten to add that the aircraft did not explode and of course, Lockerbie was much later.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved
A fleck of silver against the darkening blue
The hollow cylinder rockets under the sky’s dome
Unavailingly pursued by the thunder of its sound
Until that final scarlet reverberation;
Like the telegraph's words burning meaninglessly
Upon slip of yellow paper, and the explosion
Of grief within the mind, this fire and thunder
Do not quite coincide:
The eyes of the watcher see the disaster
Before its voice awakens in his ear.
Nothing that has meaning descends again to earth;
The lighted runway waits vainly
To feel the screeching tyres;
Customs officials will not search this baggage
That downward flakes in dust on silent fields;
Hands cannot clasp, nor lips press
What is now blown weightlessly about the sky.
There was a moment when they drowsed
Deep in luxurious chairs;
Read magazines, wrote letters;
When stewardesses served coffee and liqueurs,
And dirty dishes were neatly stacked
In the bright kitchen.
No other moment followed;
Time stopped. There was nothing…
No doubt there is a meaning to this event;
But not one that can be read
On the white face of the farmer
In mid-furrow gazing upward from his plough
Nor in the burned minds of those who wait
At the airport barrier.
Note from the author
About 'At 30,000 Thousand Feet'
The idea arose when I was walking across a golf course one early Autumn day (in the early 1950s), hearing a jet aircraft and experiencing for the first time being unable to trace it from its sound, which was coming from another part of the sky. This led to the idea that a shocking experience like the act of opening and reading a telegram of a loved-one's death, is only followed later by the explosion of its meaning. I hasten to add that the aircraft did not explode and of course, Lockerbie was much later.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved
