A short poem that started out as a short story but reduced itself considerably during writing
7 MILES HIGH
for human kind, what miracle the dream to fly
a world now small, we traverse with ease… 7 miles high
in the domain of angel’s, above a pale cloud sea
sensing paths where aviators of war once ferried their cargo of despair
anodised wings of aluminium, conquer the cold clear air
and with speed, we still, above a silent earth
it is in the journey beginnings we are reminded of human ills
herded like cattle the throngs are scanned and demeaned
dull eyed, with sterile faces, the blue gloved, sneerings screened
and black uniforms… with loaded guns…. eye the hordes