Air Time

I

Vapour trails:

worm casts left

by burrowing planes;

a wake of surf

on the shipping lanes

of an inverted sea;

pink streaks squirted

at dawn from an aerosol can;

straight lines drawn

by an unsteady hand;

wing tracks rutting

flight paths.

Il

Families lounge around

Departures, dressed in loud

anticipation of another climate,

the hair-drier blast of hot air

that will greet them like a tour guide

at the far side of the skies.

ill

Arms outstretched,

sunbather on an inflated bed,

the overhead plane

is just that interval

from take-off at which

the stewardess announces

We shall shortly be commencing

our in-flight cabin service.

It might equally be

a speeded-up version

of Bede's fable: a mechanical

sparrow hightailing it

above the tables

in that banquet hall.

IV

From there, the world is recreated as collage:

waves like a cancelled air mail letter

the artist includes for its ethereal blues.

Then inland over glued-on fields:

wheat a yellowing newspaper page,

furrows the strings of a Picasso guitar.

v

Casting cloud aside

like passive smoke,

the descending plane

dips to an elevation

where the Atlantic's

chop-and-change

is witnessed from

the safe distance

of a window seat's

reviewing stand,

a gold coast of sand

outlined by yellow

highlighter pen.

Then tufted fields

crop up; wheels put out

feelers, anxious

to touch down

on solid ground.