Flying at night
The sticks are strapped in
and there’s a slight chill,
in the early morning air.
Black tiger stripes,
are painted over our faces
and we are waiting for takeoff.
It’s much colder when the plane rises
and flies low to avoid enemy radar
and enemy Mig fighters.
There’s a yellow moon hanging low
and some stars pass,
with bright twinkling eyes.
The plane gains altitude,
before the light starts flashing
and the end of the flight draws near.
Commands are given
and something hard is in my stomach
and I hear air rushing at the open door.
I get my turn to jump and I’m free
and it’s like falling away into oblivion,
but the ground is rushing towards me.
poem by Gert Strydom
Added by Poetry Lover
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