Speedbird 9, a Boeing proud, across Indonesian sky,
To Perth from London, via all, two hundred forty-eight lives high.
Captain Moody at the helm, with Greaves and Townley-Freeman too,
But fate would test their mettle soon, as volcanic ash blew through.

St. Elmo's fire dances bright, then engines start to fail,
Four flameouts in the dead of night, a pilot's nightmare tale.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking," cool and clear,
"We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped, I fear.
We're doing our damnedest to get them going again, I trust you're not in too much distress."

A gliding jumbo, silent now, beneath the starry sea,
Moody's wit defies the gloom, his crew works tirelessly.
Descending through the inky black, they fight to restart power,
Each foot of altitude so precious in this desperate hour.

Engines silent, prayers shared, as oxygen masks deploy,
Passengers brace for impact there, while crew their skills employ.

At twenty-three thousand feet, Engine Four comes back to life,
Then Three, then Two, and last comes One – reprieve from deathly strife.
Jakarta's lights now beckon bright, a lifeline in the gloom,
Moody guides his crippled bird, averting certain doom.

Touchdown safe on runway's grace, a cheer erupts on board,
Moody's voice, a soothing balm, as normalcy's restored.

Speedbird 9, a legend born, of ash and engine's roar,
Of pilot's skill and crew's resolve, when death knocked at their door.
For Moody, Greaves, and Townley-Freeman, our gratitude we raise,
The day the sky turned perilous, and coolness saved the day.

I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.
I check’d him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and, when he found
’Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death.
I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me! but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears.
Merciful God! such was his latest prayer,
These may she never share.
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold,
Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name and life’s brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er you be,
And oh! pray too for me!