Maybe I came to consider distance,
departures, the hole in the sky
where plane after plane vanishes
into its promise of exotic arrivals.
On the ground the rain hisses,
the air sings with spent fuel,
travellers, strangers, saying honey
it’s best we both get insurance.
Think of the miles of wiring,
the valves, pumps, connections,
blips on the radar, bolts
that shake loose, metal fatigue.
Up here on the spectator’s terrace,
smug, aloof, not going anyplace,
I hang out with the cognoscenti
on a ten-visit ticket for £2.50.
We inhabit the buffet,
bright city of darkened glass behind wind,
dreaming there’s somewhere
to get to, anywhere else.
Here’s where the blood clot strikes
and the end of all memory.
Here’s where we all go out
in that grey sky the breeze is.