Keepin' em coming.

Descent

Flying in from Glasgow on the eighteen-fifty

To Aldergrove; out through the thick-glassed window

The frayed knuckles of coastline, reaching out with gnarled hands

Beyond the fallow piebald farms, swooping and diving

A thousand feet below. The sun touches the horizon

With a feathered fingertip, hissing as it meets

The waves, settling in for the night under a blanket of

Flourescent algae, the unfathomable sea-dreams of fish.

An hour earlier, on the crystalline waves of cumulae

Propelled by the eerie thrumming of astral turbines,

I wait to be informed of our descent, patient angel

Entranced by the rolling breakers, snow-white foam,

Trying to feel something. Awe. My grandfather flew

Once a month to his work in Scotland, leaving his

Son and wife in the capital, watching the sky.

My feathers melt as the black cliffs drift into view.

Thanks,

Dave.