You are waking 10,000 feet above me,
a fact I haven’t Googled,
more an ill-educated guess,
that precursor of the internet
when my intelligence was never doubted
by you, or me.
The sky will be different over Alpendorf
when you wake in a rented bed
before your coach-trip return,
when you shall try to slumber, bundled
on two thin seats, plugged into BBC
as low Austrian, and dull German
lull your plunge, infected to sleep.
Then your swallow-dive off the highs
of steep black runs, into the deep-end
of the dream pool.