Parnassian urges

New bearing

Co-pilot to my own life, I watch myself
descend to middle-age.
From flying high to cruising in turbulence,
referring to the manual, made up
of extracts from books I thumbed
when thoughts were new.

The controls are worn,
the view of clouds familiar,
and the radar down.
The sleepless watch continues,
in disoriented misconception that
I know the destination.

Below, the ghost of myself tracks
footpaths worn by long-lost lovers.
Are they happier now, the voices
that whispered to me once
on sensual summer evenings
and solemn Sunday mornings?

Co-pilot to my own life, I watch myself
push on, one engine out.
The throttle strains to turn,
to bank against the gravity of baggage
in the hold that pulls me down.
The compass plots a more supernal course.