A flight through clouds
like no other flight of mine,
no map laid out below,
just bright white sunlight
glaring in the window.

Last time I flew with BA
over my mother's house
I got a bottle of PiLs
and tiny cheese biscuits.

This time I flew with BA
I got a champagne breakfast
with real reconstituted orange juice,
some lovely cheese I must find again,
a decent bread and scone,
some sausages I couldn't eat,
and clouds over the sea.

Copenhagen looks like a campus,
or how one should have been.
The centre is more European
than narrow London's rubbish,
there's hardly any traffic,
and people wait for the green man.

image: poem



image: set Hear

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