All The Way Down

 

All The Way Down

 

I first flew with the butterflies,

taking to the skies

with trepidation – there were flowers below,

the names of which I did not know,

never would, could not taste them

or leave wing-prints behind.

Nor did I have an inkling

of anything approaching destination.

She gives me a sultry wink and sighs:

‘All the way down there?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, uncertain inside,

as she stabs at an imaginary map,

stamps the passport, all hijab and official cap.

Stewardess shepherdess, I think,

but she will not be taking the flight.

Ten years have passed since that

happened – Emirates, and how it was,

closing the door on one life,

opening onto another chance - because,

well, that old story had ended in tragedy.

I did not know it then,

and thought you could revisit books,

return to the library for another look,

once you’d paid the fine.

But it’s not the case – they rip up pages,

rewrite chapters, only remember haphazards,

or come travellers, come blizzards -

and the title is buried.

So here, on this 11^th time around,

I’m different now, familiar sights and sounds.

The capped attendants have changed,

the wink and stamp the same

but they can spot shook pepper pots of seasoning –

some depression and foreboding, too,

but at the same time know that you

are part of the furniture

that completes the room –

all the butterflies have long since flown.

Those? My prints after thumbing down corners

but what chapter this is or in what order

I cannot say. They say I will be seeing

the final chapter as it comes into being –

I did not flit, look, leave - but left imprints on it,

all this, I did – today en route, I saw a car flip:

it hit the hedgerow, A392,

cut across the bus and pancake tossed.

I prayed they were safe, no life lost,

but, at the same time,

clutched my flight ticket and left it behind,

prepared to do - and be

my little bit of feng shui.