Speedbird 9
Richard
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Speedbird 9, a Boeing proud, across Indonesian sky,
To from London, via all, two hundred forty-eight lives high.
Moody at the helm, with Greaves and Townley-Freeman too,
fate would test their mettle soon, as volcanic ash through.
St. Elmo's fire dances bright, then engines start 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. four engines have stopped, I fear.
We're doing our to get them going again, I trust you're not too much distress."
A gliding jumbo, silent now, the starry sea,
Moody's wit defies the gloom, his works tirelessly.
Descending through the inky black, they fight restart power,
Each foot of altitude so precious in 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 – from deathly strife.
Jakarta's lights now beckon bright, a in the gloom,
Moody guides his crippled bird, averting doom.
Touchdown safe on runway's grace, a cheer erupts board,
Moody's voice, a soothing balm, as normalcy's restored.
9, a legend born, of ash and engine's roar,
pilot's skill and crew's resolve, when death knocked at door.
For Moody, Greaves, and Townley-Freeman, our gratitude we raise,
The day the sky turned perilous, and coolness saved day.