The second best thing
About living near an airport—
Behind the short walks home
In the familiar squeeze
Of a drizzling English evening—
Is the takeoffs in late spring.
Tearing away gently from solid
Ground and over familiar trees,
As glimpses of a past life
Flicker in eyes by the window seats.
Higher still, you see the stretch
That once seemed like a universe.
A collection of toy houses
Tethered together by memory—
But too far to see clearly, now.
But still the matchstick figures
Press on as we sail from view,
And the sun beats a parochial beat.
I spot, then, where we cut our shape
In the thin, gold film and cast a shadow
On the hallowed ground:
Briefly and lightly,
Just like life below.
Uncultured Review 