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“Look – there – the coast of France!” I crane to see
three miles below, through three thick panes refracted
the brown indented land, the silver sea –
a giant’s map unfurled. Yet instantly
Kent’s coast: cliffs flattened, tranquil bays contracted
to an eye’s blink. And worse to come. The Isle
of Thanet, home once, now the merest blip,
nudges sea. It slips away beneath, while
we glide westward over Kent, identify
this or that place by its lights, watch daylight die.
the world and the past diminish. Distance appals.
Yet the sky in the west still glows, and soon
the river threads its silver past St. Paul’s,
and tiny landmarks, lights like flowers, bloom.

© Dale Mitchell, June 2007