Below, the patchwork earth, dark hems of hedge
The long grey tapes of road that bind and loose
Villages and fields in casual marriage:
We bank above the small lough and farmhouse
 
And the sure green world goes topsy-turvy
As we climb out of our familiar landscape.
The engine noises change. You look at me.
The coastline slips away beneath the wing-tip.
 
And launched right off the earth by force of fire,
We hang, miraculous, above the water,
Dependent on the invisible air
To keep us airborne and bring us farther.
 
Ahead of us the sky’s a geyser now.
A calm voice talks of cloud but we feel lost.
Air pockets jolt our fears and down we go.
Travellers, at this point, can only trust.
 
Seamus Heaney
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