I am travelling to England with my son, Gawn:
the aircraft sounds unstable – but as usual I relax
into a near-sleep state
in which time no longer exists.
Lightning happens: it pitches me into a whiteout of fear.
Turbulence forces us to fasten our seatbelts,
then bruisingly grounds us.
According to the pilot, we remain within the State of New York.
His plane taxies; almost collides with a convoy of trucks: I faint.
* * *
I recover at my parents’: in their East of England kitchen,
Leighton is cooking a light meal.
Looking out of the French window, I catch the aircraft
attempting acrobatics to the west of the garden.
I am glad to be out of it.
After the inevitable crash, I can sense only guilt
at my abandonment of Gawn: I am drawn
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