Tuesday, 17 July 2012

Airplanes and aeroplanes

They say that Tempelhof is where the ghosts of past aeroplanes come to rest. I lie in bed, balcony doors open to the soft rustle of July rain, and I listen to them howl.

The planes are old wolves whose broken wings are keeping them from the moon.

I lie in bed and I wait hopefully for the rain to get its teeth into the night. Where is my thunder? I want the sky to crack and grumble.

Poor planes.

The underworld is too cramped for their lumbering, sighing, clanking bodies and there’s only so much room inside this ball of soil we are yoked to.

What Medieval monk could have predicted the size of these beasts? It’s all so many giggles when they swoop through the skies, but their souls are weighty and wing-spanned and banished back to the earth.

I step out to the balcony, and I listen. I want to tell them it’s not so bad, but when I open my lips my voice is swallowed by two clouds careening into one another.

Like pool balls: thunk.

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