Waiting at Changi Airport (Adelaide to Heathrow)

Our holiday was like an apple,
smooth, green, fully rounded.
But now fruit has softened
and we try to think it back to shape.

Outside, dusk. The stars have
quit their usual places.
Disoriented, they have gone too far
and crossed a deep black lake.

Singapore swelters. A workman
carries tools to service our plane.
The runway is misted, heat distorted.
We are inside a house of frost

and ignore souvenirs
illuminated by fluorescence
that turns glass to brittle diamonds
sparkling, tiny ice cubes.

Above us dials declare world times,
fairy dancers out of line,
but we fix our memories
like buds in rimed twigs

and focus on high altitude
where clouds will emerge like fruit
trees, domed white, blossom topped
full white blossoms.


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Mary
Poetry
Free Verse
writing Mary
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Synopsis
The ideas came from the strange 'out of this world' feeling one gets from crossing time zones.
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