Empty air is a distraction
cut out of another void
scissored away from cypress avenues
and dusty white roads too far
below to see anything in it
that feels like thinking or flying.
As we could be, now,
through this shiny air swooping
on details like a camera or a firefly
touching down for a moment
on a roof, contact lenses or sunglasses
pointed at a ridge-tile.
Looking down on a valley, go
higher carried on thermals until
each farmhouse rhymes with
fieldmouse, perspective awry, your wings
shrunk to angel size,
curved and sleek cut-outs to keep.
You call it a drone and you might
be right, these days what soars is not
always the imagination or the heart,
and seen from above we will
always be a distraction, a target
for some process that needs to cut us out.