Melbourne to Sydney (Salesman's sonnet #3}

We are loaded through a shute into this commuter flight.
Suited, clutching afternoon papers and magazines,
I settle beside a window and clasp my seat-belt tight
ignoring the deft pantomine of safety routines.
We're off in a rush with a roar jet-load.
Wings tremoring with a primal need to flap.
Up, up through the vaporous fluff of clouds
to glimpse the living fragments of a ground-bound map.
Engulfed by pastel mists of every hue,
we are pursued by sunset's flood red tide.
Leonardo knew the breadth of this birds-eye view.
Unnoticed or ignored by all inside.

Overseen by the swelling glow of a blue-sky moon.
I see the weeping gash of a home-torn wound.

Melbourne to Sydney (salesman's sonnet #3}