Colonial

I'm glad you appreciated the poem. I wrote it many years ago when I was learning to fly in a Tiger Moth at Cairns in North Queensland. Feel free to post it if you like.

Bob

[i]The art of the rigger has gone from the sky
The man with the plumb bob and string
Who measured his angles with confident eye
And fashioned the old wooden wing

The inverted pistons have pounded their last
Their joyous vibration has gone
And the rigging that sung in the wind as it passed
Has ended its whispering song

Oh the days when we flew by the feel of the stick
With a hazy horizon to guide
The brain of the pilot was nimble and quick
But those days have faded and died

And where is the music of fabric and wire
And where is the splash of the wind
As it lashes the shoulders and head of the flyer
Who sits with his harnesses pinned

I cannot but feel that the gains we have made
Are costing a little too dear
For the thrashing propeller with long wooden blade
Was always a pleasure to hear

So if on the day when i meet the great judge
And if I am given a choice
I shall ask for a bi-plane instead of a harp
To show Him its magical voice

Bob Tait[/i]

Thanks Colonial. That is one of my favourites! You should also ask Bob to recite some of his dirty ditties...

Cheers,

Rich

You're welcome Rich. I'm always glad to see passion in the work place. Maybe there will be space for one or two in the next book!