And the biplanes on your wall
You were always Amy Johnson
From the time that you were small.
No schoolroom kept you grounded
While your thoughts could get away
You were taking off in Tiger Moths
Your wings against the brush-strokes of the day
Are you there?
On the tarmac with the winter in your hair
By the empty hangar doors, you stop and stare
Leave the oil-drums behind you, they won’t care
Oh, are you there?”