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Through the cabin window's haze
we watch the black shadow of our plane
free itself from the underarriage,
separate, then fall away.
With it falls the sunlit runway,
grids of crops and reservoirs, then all
the scattered glitter of a city
falls, the tattered coastline of a country
plunges out of view.
And just when you might expect to see
the globe in brilliant clarity,
cloud fills the tiny screen
and we, who haven't taken off
at all, wait, seatbelts on,
for the world to turn and return to us
as it always does, sooner or later,
to fix itself to the craft again
at a point marked with the shadow of a plane,
pencilled now on a runway, growing
larger under Irish rain.
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If you like poetry (Miranda), I'd really suggest looking into some of her stuff...I like what I've found so far!
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