In fulfilment of a vow I made the last time I was in the air. (I’m not at all a skittish flyer, and never have been—perhaps because I’m quite serious about what I say in the last two sentences of this piece…) It’s more prose with pauses for breath than poetry.
August Mercury,
yours it is to fly through the air
on winged sandals, with your cloak billowing behind you,
your cap plumed and winged,
lightning-swift messenger of the gods,
guide of travellers,
darting rapidly as a soul.
In imitation of you we learned the skill
of flying through the air
on clumsy machines, heavy and imperfect,
propelling our progress with jets and fuel.
Each voyage we make by such means
attests to what we’ve learned from you
as well as to our own frailty.
I put my faith in you, Atlantiades,
whether my journey end as I intend it or not,
and accept whatever world you guide me to
as my destination.
For every voyage thus undertaken
and by your will concluded,
from the bottom of my heart,
Mercury Dumias, I thank you.
V · S · L · M
Deo Mercurio 