The night flight is bringing
me home again.
On a flight like this
back then, we’d have held hands
across two oceans, but the seat next to me
this time is empty
although someone is sitting there.
And as we float
from Pacific pineapples
over Arctic ice-caps
down clean white Hebridean beaches
to touch down on a bed of memories
and soft morning breaks
on the pink pillowy riverbank
I know she won’t be there.
There’ll be no breakfast for sharing
and the kitchen won’t smell of oranges
or scorch-roasted coffee grounds.
Just a footfall cushioned by unopened mail
and the faint, damp,
unwelcoming woody scent
of no-one waiting.
With an exhausted turbo-sigh
the long night flight
is bringing my baggage
home again.
But I’m still out there
With jagged bits of me smeared
across time and territory.
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Stephen A. Linstead
Image: Marta Branco via Pexels
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