While driving home, this winter night,
I saw the orange greenhouse light
illuminate the sky.
The telly says, in Pakistan,
a hijacked plane, the bastards gone,
they killed a two–day groom.
An airport near, another crash,
a cargo plane, the pilot’s dash–
ing self–belief, now dead.
A glass of wine, the need for sleep,
this cyclic time, disturbed relief,
so naturally I dream...