They line up at the cliff edge, eyes on the storm clouds ahead,
nervously opening the umbrellas they’ve just been handed by the young assistant
about to direct them.
He asks a few questions, answers of which are stolen away by the wind
as it crawls through their mouths and hair.
Then he takes out a combined watch, compass and barometer, counts down
and gives a short pip of his silver whistle.
As one, the first group steps off the cliff
and catches the draft down to the city below,
floating serenely as their suitcases dangle by their knees,
carrying everything they need for arrival.
Another pip sounds behind them, and
briefly they wonder
how many the assistant has to guide today.
Treeshallow Musings 