Plane moves. I don’t like the feel of it.
In a car I’d suspect low tyre pressure.

A sudden swiftness, earth slithers
Off at an angle. The experienced solidly

This is rather a short hop for me

Read Guardians, discuss secretaries,
Business lunches. I crane for the last of dear

I’m doing it just to say I’ve done it

Familiar England, motorways, reservoir,
Building sites. Nimble tiny-disc, a sun

Tell us when we get to water

Runs up the porthole and vanishes.
Under us the broad meringue kingdom

The next lot of water’ll be the Med

Of cumulus, bearing the crinkled tangerine stain
That light spreads on an evening sea at home.
You don’t need an overcoat, but
It’s the sort of place where you need
A pullover. Know what I mean?

We have come too high for history.
Where we are now deals only with tomorrow,
Confounds the forecasters, dismisses clocks.

My last trip was Beijing. Know where that is?
Beijing. Peking, you’d say. Three weeks there, I was.
Peking is wrong. If you’ve been there
You call it Beijing, like me. Go on, say it.

Mackerel wigs dispense the justice of air.
At this height nothing lives. Too cold. Too near the sun.