Ian Patterson

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.