In that empty vault
two fossils from a future world
mothballing ripped
a Bacon nude rust the red hair
bolts and crumpled pipes
simpler than your modern car
beneath the silver sleek
Givenchy skin

I was there so long ago
a boy a model aeroplane
balsa wooded ribs
spreading wings and tail
stretch the tissue tight
brush the dope
breath happily that giddy
smell of childhood

Like methylated spirit for my train
fill the boiler raise a head of steam
to pull the rolling stock
into a world of green
Swiss fields with painted wooden
cows trees stations and a track
around the world of dreams
but I digress

Where is the Phoenix
Wheels on wire legs
elasticated bands
wind up the prop get set
and let her go
She rushes at the path
onto the rough grass
but does not rise

Adjust and wind her up again
she soars she circles to the left
Like vultures gazing down
their prey scurrying across
the bitter grass below
She swoops – into a bed
Of blood red Cannas
In my mother’s garden

Dreams rise from those memories but
where is that inspiration here
at thirty thousand feet
I grip my chair tighten
up my belt and pray
awaiting just one bolt to lose its grip
one pipe varicosely flawed to split?
The Phoenix may not rise again.

Bryan Thomas

Ed. 27.02.14                                                                                 (48 lines)