Overhead the behemoths drone in and out
of personal spaces.
My wife returns to our enfolded warmth.
The rumble-in and then a roasting thunder
quickly passes into someone else’s quiet ownership
to leave a vague memory
of a clamour
like a lament that hasn’t reached fulfilment
or a desire left hanging, forlorn.
Out there in measured air the passengers
on a finger of flame jealously regard
their own tight goals, blind to me
wrapped in linen and sheltering from the light.
But at times the ragged space just moans
in a grumpy thunder that recedes into a whining howl
like an in-law with a curse.
Yet at other times these flying shipments
glide by in a murmur rubbing shoulders
with hopes and dreams.
So I imagine they go in peace.