This occurred on a flight from Stanstead to Pisa in mid-August 1999. I carried a sick-bag around with me for the rest of the day, and felt sea sick every time I went in the swimming pool over the ensuing week.
Though jet-fatigued and air-sick, snugly belt-tucked
In my window nest, secure, I hear the deaf and raucous
Chirp of anxious smiles that dream and yearn to dance
Beneath cicada-lazy Tuscan summer skies.
Clucking flight staff gather magazines and coffee debris,
Demanding of their brood neat table stowage
And return of arm rests. They flirt, by knowing glance
And subtle gesture, with each other, collusively adept.
My nose pressed against the plastic peep-hole, I see
Fleece towers and cathedrals boiling skywards
Between invisible rivers of silent cascades;
Turbulent rafts of white stonework adrift in blue air.
I miss the bang, or explosion, or whatever happened,
That throws flight attendants, limbs akimbo, to the floor,
And locker-luggage tumbling onto rabbit-eyed passengers,
Who, metallic taste on tongue, wonder: "Is this the end?"
My guts yell "attitude abnormal" and try to vomit breakfast.
The thin, stale air is taut, and mutely apprehensive
As the engine scream pitch rises, then subsides, and
Dishevelled staff begin to rescue dignity and fallen debris.
The plane skids shudderingly groundwards: a blooded swan,
Wild and frightened, puncturing buttresses and stairwells,
Blindly searching for the apron of its Pisan nest.
On land, my tongue more richly samples bittersweet espressi.
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