Dash 8 from Armidale
At nineteen thousand feet
The propeller is 2 metres of
Continuous diaphanous blade,
A thin curtain of spin slicing the air,
There’s a blur at the tip where
Contrary paint hints at a solid
Fugal edge, the fleeing, flight edge.
It would not warn a bird.
Held by the engineered centre
By its core and cone.
This centre can hold,
This gyre not fly off.
The propeller lives by refinement
And human purposes.
They are not replaced by the jet.
While it looks like nothing’s there
“Beware, beware.” The cutting air.
Ivan Head
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