The pensive next-door neighbour said:

‘I’m sure I saw him leave the ground.

He flapped the wings against the wind,

But then there was that crashing sound.’

 

That was the moment I arrived,

As he lay prostrate on the lawn,

Surrounded by a broken wreck;

His odd ambition still unborn.

 

His target was to be the first

To lift off under his own steam;

To generate the force to fly

And realise a lifelong dream.

 

The optimist in all of us

Was rooting for him to succeed,

For his contraption – strange, hand-made –

To reach unprecedented speed.

 

To elevate away from Earth

And soar above the countryscape.

Instead of which it lies in bits,

Bound carelessly with sticky tape.

 

The man next door was quite convinced,

An insisted unabated,

His friend was briefly in the air.

Thus illusions are created.

 

Despite our fears, our man was fine:

Nothing more than a few bruises.

He’ll build again his box of tricks

And work magic when he chooses.