They say if man were meant to fly,
Then babes would come with wings,
If this be true, then why’s the sky,
So full of flying things?

I’m told it started long ago,
When folks still used their feet,
Until one day a thinking man,
Thought flying might be neat.

So to his shop he carried forth,
The stuff that makes our dreams,
He laboured long till he had formed,
The first of flying machines.

Its lines were crude, the engine weak,
For strength he strung steel wire,
Then high atop a wind swept hill,
The man did mount his flyer.

The prop was spun, the engine roared,
The ship sailed into space,
But since the man had never flown,
He landed on his face.

This failure did not stop him there,
For once more did he try,
And as you know from looking up,
The man did learn to fly.

Success complete, he struggled on,
His vision now seemed clear,
Of graceful ships to sail the sky,
While friends looked on in fear.

Then to the craft he added struts,
A rudder shaped the tail,
In place of skids he mounted wheels,
The ship no longer frail.

The years passed by, the craft refined,
For nothing did it lack,
On board he bolted mighty jets,
A washroom in the back.

The airports grew in size and noise,
Which made the people frown,
And that’s why runways to this day,
Lie thirty miles from town.

The man felt sad among the crowd,
His dream was just to fly,
But now frustration seemed their mood,
Lost baggage was their cry.

So from the airport did he walk,
While jets flew over top,
And as I watched, he smiled at me,
And headed for his shop.

by Patrick J. Phillips