In flight
I still think it’s miraculous
that a fat-bellied hunk of metal and plastic
full of grumbling humans
can launch itself out of the grey Manchester rain
and into a landscape of ripples and blue.
Yet we roll our eyes and half watch
someone with false eyelashes
tell us about blowing a whistle to attract attention.
Whose attention?
Who would witness our fast plunge?
Because surely that’s what they mean.
But we have learned to trust those rivets out there
on the wing.
If this ice lace-fringed window had a hinge
I could step out and dance above
those cumulous mountains.
Photo by Taylor Van Riper on Unsplash
