Melbourne to Sydney (salesman's sonnet #3)
We're loaded into this commuter flight.
Suited, I clutch papers and magazines,
Settle by a window, with seat-belt tight,
Ignoring the safety circus routines.
We're off in a rush, with a roar jet-load.
Wings tremor with a primal need to flap.
Up, up through the vaporous fluff of clouds,
To glimpse the fragments of a ground-bound map.
Engulfed by pastels of every hue,
We are pursued by sunset's flood red tide.
Da Vinci had once drawn this birds-eye view.
Unseen or ignored by all inside.
Above the swelling glow, a blue-sky moon,
The weeping red gash of a home-torn wound.
Suited, I clutch papers and magazines,
Settle by a window, with seat-belt tight,
Ignoring the safety circus routines.
We're off in a rush, with a roar jet-load.
Wings tremor with a primal need to flap.
Up, up through the vaporous fluff of clouds,
To glimpse the fragments of a ground-bound map.
Engulfed by pastels of every hue,
We are pursued by sunset's flood red tide.
Da Vinci had once drawn this birds-eye view.
Unseen or ignored by all inside.
Above the swelling glow, a blue-sky moon,
The weeping red gash of a home-torn wound.
[Sonnet from a collection by S.C.N. Pockley]
(CC) reserved by Simon Pockley [1044] I try to respond within 24 hours
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