by Richard Martin
From an upstairs window
I watch the first wave
of the day's flights depart
from the nearby airport,
and wonder at the mystery -
heralded by ferocious whines,
the planes rise at a uniform angle
of thirty degrees from the ground -
white paper darts aimed
by some skillful giant hand.
They fly off in the same direction
as though bound for a reunion
in the clouds, while I ask myself
how such cumbersome contraptions
can float so gracefully above the earth -
but then my thoughts turn to puffins,
geese and ducks, so limited on the ground,
like just about every bird,
and I am almost reassured.
RICHARD MARTIN is an English writer living in retirement from university teaching on the borders of Holland, Belgium and Germany. His third book of poetry, Seeing the World, came out in 2012. He has published in magazines in England, Ireland, USA, Canada and Austria.