Ian rules the skies, or so he thinks.
He sweeps, swoops and flies.
Ian flies high, but often sinks.
This chimp thinks he is a master of the skies.

Wind strong, gusty and more east.
#Ianthechimp eyes up his strong launch stance.
Paragliding wing is placed in full view of the beast.
The beast, the east, sees his chance.

With gusto, malice and a cheeky blast.
The east wind has no regret.
Ian, launch, lifted as he is turned fast.
Words wafted up high ... OH ****.

A wild swing as the chimp holds rake.
The beastly east tries some more.
One eye closed, Ian applies brake.
East is beaten, Ian is secure.

Yet the east, the beast, lies at height wait.
Ian climbs out of Cayton Bay.
The wind is hiding high with lifty bait.
Ian takes the leaving line, refusing to stay.

The beast announces himself with malice.
Ian regrets his cross country aim.
Losing speed and height palace.
Reach for Filey Brigg, or run without shame.

Turn, aim home and fly fast.
The beast has one more trick.
Return to the bay with turn last.
He hits the paraglider like a brick.

Wobble, rotor, accelerated flight.
A return to the safety of the bay.
To land on top would cause fright.
****** that Ian, beach landing with obey.

What have we learnt about the beastly east.
With its mean, malice and playful unfun.
Don't challenge, else decease.
Play in the air, climb and top land shun.

I wandered lonely as a chimp
That flies on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a shrimp,
A ghost, of golden thrills;
Beside the lake, beneath Ian's knees,
Flying and fluttering in the breeze.

Cumulus clouds building before the rain
And thermals lifting on the way,
They stretched in never-ending plane
Along the margins of Filey bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The clouds over Filey Bay danced; they
out-did the sparkling waves containing wee:
#Ianthechimp is definately not grey,
The hairy chimp did not ***:
Ian gazed—and gazed—but little thought  (as usual),
What lift the clouds to me had brought:

For this aft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in grumpy mood,
They flash upon that final fly
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And paraglides with ok, but adequate flying skills.