entire microcosms,
humans on another plane;
not just pilots getting high.
Islands in the clouds.
Ice-glazed profiles
peeking through shrouds.
Above the sheepskin rug
of eternal icecap
we drift above a cotton wool map.
On a clear night
I become a space-age kite.
I look down on your cities
where locks on bridges
and a myriad of flicked-on switches
make light of the facts…
One day you might
want to fish the key out.
My Pa,
crossing black skies like ours
year after year
over tens of thousands of hours.
My Ma,
At home, with us or alone
preparing for the next time he’s due home.
My brothers,
2 in total
one grounded and content
another shares my view of stars
3 time-zones earlier,
over a different continent.
I look down from my thoughts and find
Dublin:
sexy, blue and uncouth;
what a great place to have wasted my youth.
Fellow islander,
May the fallen angel
of heightened danger
watch over you
as you fly past;
looking up from
his tomb
with a jealous eye.
Copyright © Francisco Rebollo 2015
