Flat green sea laps lightly
at the wet brown sands of
the west coast of England.
cut and quartered by hedgerows,
rise beneath us.
Red sunrise glows from jet engines
as dawn prisms the horizon
and contrails glint across the sky.
Engines’ din dims, meshes
with the air system’s sussuration
And a baby’s tiny cry.
Smoke flows from factory stacks
far enough below a silver wing
to become equal silver rivers of magic.
Closer now, toy trucks and trains grow
fields and estates connect with houses
until the final thump and roar
and pull-back into England.