When they posted me here to the section,
I was free as the pitiless air,
Unashamed of confessed imperfection,
Having no sort of burden to bear.
I was not an incurable slacker;
Neat, not fussy – I fancied of old,
But today I’m a Parachute Packer,
And my heart takes a turn with each fold.
When I think how I snugly resided
In the lap of this land we could lose,
I believe if I left one cord twisted,
I would place my own neck in a noose.
So I lay the fine silk on the table
And I lift each pale panel in turn.
They have said that my folding is able
But it took me a long time to learn.
For the cords must come free for smooth flowing
And the webbing attachment be stout,
For the brute of a breeze will be blowing
If the aircrew have to bale out.
‘Cos the flyer must float unencumbered,
Come to earth to complete the design,
See, the ‘chute has been carefully numbered,
And in the name in the log book is mine.
So is conscience awakened and care born
In the heart of a negligent maid.
Fickle Aeolus, fight for the airborne,
Whom I strive with frail fingers to aid.
Give my heroes kind wind and fair weather,
Let no parachute sidle or slump,
For today we go warring together
And my soul will be there at the jump.
Kindly reproduced and prepared for our website by Barry Howard of the Spiworthonian Language Institute
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning we will remember
them. - Laurence
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• Last Modified: 26 May 2014, 07:58 •