Wednesday 27 July 2016

Swift currants.

As I stood in the garden just now, gazing and trying to clear my focus, I realised they’d gone, again. Hundreds of pages in and thousands to go, I was clearing the air, as it were, after a miserable morning here in the drizzled smoke. Silence.

I was scanning up at the traffic, the usual beacon twirlers and inbound, the spy in the sky sniffing to assist social media assassins and for what knows since I have not seen anyone arrested but thousands aided, all the traffic that has amused my eye since I was a lad way back when, far, far away staring up and the Red Arrows, in a tight vic, formating on their logistics, Victor if I remember correctly, and they flew right over my back garden at approx 30,000ft direct from showing the Norte Americanos how you really navigate the air. I had watched them as they came over the horizon, stark white contrails upon the sky. I watched them head south west as far as I could and then it was back to clocking German/Dutch F104s pissing around Prestwick. Well I might have been a tad awe struck that they were right over my lawn and the altitude might have gone to my head  but they were there alrighty. In formation, high in the beautiful, like PRU blue, only red.

About 3pm I was standing there beside my concrete owl, I call it Moloch just to phukkoph the gods, wondering at the silence above. Nothing outbound from Heathrow. No Elstree heroes. No black helicopters overhearing. No MiHiSkipilots. De nada.

Only yesterday they put on a marvellous unusual low level display like Hurricanes and Gnats loading up, testing the free air, screeing, careening and scooting around the eves, tree and chimney tops, round and around, whole groups of them, wing tip stalls, cartwheels and yo-yos everywhere. Lead and lag, hover and fall, all in majestic control. A thermodynamic symphonia in feather. Occasionally one of them would cling to the looming school building wall, at some vent points, for a breather I assume. This was in contrast to the normal display hundreds of feet in the air. They were skimming and sliding, pulling manoeuvres that Immelman and Boelcke only dreamed of, almost within my grasp.  I wanted to reach up and catch some of their magic that I might be transported away into their joy.

I have counted them all out and I have counted them all back over their many, many generations knowing this day would come again.

I love them and I stood and watched and was transfixed.   

Today as I was checking the tayberries, blackcurrants, blackberries, raspberries and my orphaned blue berries I was stunned by the silence around a Northolt rendition flight.

They’ve gone.

Sadness surrounds, summer is over.

All gone. I cannot be more rent.