Philip Larkin flies transatlantic
My safety harness furtively unbuckled,
I ransack pockets for three pebbly mints
Snaffled from stewardesses decked in tartan.
No nuts? enquired one, and, once I'd chuckled,
Edged fretfully towards the toilet (spartan),
To give her hands, well-manicured, a rinse.
Yawning, I take a peek across my neighbours:
Through portholes, I discern a slosh of blue
And sun dunked in it, looking unromantic.
Onscreen, two Viking salts are rattling sabres
On longships bound to conquer the Atlantic:
All history's plain useless if it's true.