Sharp tang of jet fuel
In the quick-clouding autumn air.
Redolent of adventure
And unconsidered action:
Black leafless birches and moonlit snow
Above sixty-six degrees;
Creaking saddles and boyhood dreams
Beneath the western pines;
The earth’s bones breaking through rusty dirt
On the dreaming plain.
Fragments of lost lives, long-departed versions of myself
Like the last suitcases on the carousel
Slowly circling, slowly circling
Never to be reclaimed.
At Gatwick Airport railway station, November 2019