Late Out

This dessicated path
is an off-white scar
under the moon’s phase
of waxing gibbous

Boots and tamed dogs
have worn this route
into a grass-bare map
which I read by that light

The holding flightpaths
of man-made meteors –
of ephemeral accords –
circle among the clouds

The transmitter mast blinks
with a beast’s red eye
shaming Arcturus and Mars
so even those stars fade

This as the bypass hums
a song of our war won –
our tilt against creation
by over engineering

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