Freedom

Chris took me up in the aeroplane yesterday afternoon. The hills were a "soft grey" (as Elva puts it) with patches of white and brown among the evergreens; the lakes were white. The sky was grey too, but, to the northeast of us, as we followed the Gatineau River up to Wakefield, we could see a small patch of brightness.

"Let's fly into that patch of sunshine!"

"All right," said my pilot.

A few minutes later we were in the magic, the snowy slopes below us lit with slanting light. We could actually see the light beams coming through the clouds to the west. For a few moments, there had been blue sky above us:

...that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky

I thought of that poem, and of prisoners, and I realised what a privilege it is to see something beautiful ahead and be able to fly straight towards it. Having a 'plane doesn't come cheap though. I think perhaps I was even more appreciative of freedom, or closer to essentials, when I we had less money, when I wrote this...

Skaters, with slick and liquid limbs
And surfers, aslant a wave,
On the tip, shimmering,
Sky-divers, flung against cold air,
Have all attained a certain ecstasy;
And so have I,
Walking in sunlight
Down an ordinary street.

The street in my poem was Downside, Shoreham-by-Sea, in Sussex, in the 1980s. We lived at No. 35. Never look up your old address on Google Earth, by the way, if you want to keep your memories intact. I am horrified to discover that they've gone and erected a garage where my asparagus and gladioli used to grow against the fence, and the frog pond seems to have gone as well. It's still a nice garden, though, with plenty of trees for children to climb, and the conservatory / extension we had built at the back of the house is still standing.