Jenny Morris

Love-making in Air

Black swifts in the sky
ascend, soar and glide.
They turn all about,
seem not to collide.

When feeling great joy
they scream and they sing.
They swoop and they love
to mate on the wing.

And we on our flight
are feeling the same.
We eye up the crowd
and drink our champagne.

With blankets above,
seats set to recline,
we touch and embrace.

Already a subscriber? Log in

Keep reading with a free trial

Subscribe and get your first month of online and app access for free. After that it’s just £1 a week.

There’s no commitment, you can cancel any time.


Unlock more articles



Don't miss out

Join the conversation with other Spectator readers. Subscribe to leave a comment.

Already a subscriber? Log in