Crow Flies

I thought I caught
your high laughter
above the babble
of the rear passengers,
those still seat-searching,

that loud release
of your soul through
the packed plane,
but you were fifty miles
as the black crow flies

back in Sussex,
strutting, teaching kids
the art of slow cooking,
whilst our youngest
was absent, next to me.

We circled above you
and then turned east,
and the tight discomforts
of modern air travel
meant I was cut off

by the rule of law,
subject to sky marshals
and air hostesses,
the containerised whims
when being removed,

a divorce, felt as tightness
from the buckle and belt,
which have to be worn
due to the turbulence,
we could drop from the sky.