Always wanted to jump out of an aeroplane, but never managed it.

Down in the hollow that’s known as the dell
The Ash and the Oak are blooming in spring.
Forest floor painted with nature’s bluebell
While high in the branches birds nest and sing.
Out of the nest there peeks a small fledgling
Not ready for flight though craving to go,
With wings open wide in blue skies soaring
To be in the air where warm thermals flow.

On terra firma where man has to dwell
Stands a young boy, who’s hoping and wishing,
To fly on high with a sleek Philomel
That’s turning and soaring, dipping and gliding.
Facing the sky where soft winds are whispering
He gazes in awe with his face all-aglow,
Feet rooted in clay eternally longing
To be in the air where warm thermals flow.

Descending through clouds he spinningly fell
The wind rushes past him loudly screaming,
With joy in his heart he lets out a yell
Plummeting downwards no longer dreaming.
Akin to an albatross gliding on wing,
Beneath a white canopy he swings to and fro,
Drifting to earth he’s no longer speeding
To be in the air where warm thermals flow.

Like dandelions’ seeds, he’s parachuting
Floating on up-draughts above earth below,
Ambition at last blossomed this morning
To be in the air where warm thermals flow.

Authors note: Philomel is an old English word for a Nightingale.