They sparkle beneath our wings;
spilt jewel caskets, lights strewn
in rich darkness, lampstrings of pearls.
And then the plane tilts, a warm
intimate thrumming, like travelling within
the ambergris-heavy belly of a whale.
The abstract beauty of our world;
gleams anvilled to a glowing grid,
how the floor of earth is thick inlaid!
Traffic borne, lotus on a stream,
planes lofting, hovering, descending,
kites without strings, as I race homewards
towards you, beside whom I now belong,
age iam, meorum finis amorum
my late, but final anchoring.
from Collected Poems (Gallery Press, 1995) © John Montague 1995, used by permission of the author and The Gallery Press.