Fear In Flight, God (a poem in two forms)
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...
I’m drinking Rosé,
the colour of inhuman blood,
From night–time winter nurseries
cylinders of bright orange light
rise to the lowering cloud,
and spread like petals,
murder a bridegroom
the heat is so extreme
that shocked birds
flying far above flames
falling as shells,
to reduce their nation’s pain
by adding to it.
This is a time of cyclic myth
of winter solstice,
of Christian birth.
Today’s God consumes.