Of words and sounds and fragrant African dust

It's a glorious day in Johannesburg and I wake with the words of John Gillespie Magee Jnr's poem High Flight running through my head...

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

— John Gillespie Magee, Jr

I am instantly six years old and excited-breathless in the Cessna with my mother at the Lusaka Flying Club. She has brought a cushion for me, an improvised booster-seat, so that I can see everything just as she does. She calls me the co-pilot, and teaches me the pre-flight checks while my friends are learning nursery rhymes and being coaxed into stiff-petticoated Saturday afternoon party dresses...

Or the bush-smell of the first rains after long dry winters; the warm comfort of the scent and a sense that everything will be alright again, now that the rains are finally here. Lying on our backs in the yard as fat drops kick up dust around us and the dogs run barkingly in circles, giddy with excitement.

Or the cry of a fish eagle in the early evening.