Rumbling

The first jet plane
cuts the morning air
rumbling.
Vapour trails divide
the sky, drawing eyes
upwards.
Sound waves fall
breaking my thoughts.
Silence.

Sat in my oasis
far below I contemplate
the journey, the end,
the sights
those passengers
may see.
What far flung foreign
shores are they
destined for?

Sun soaked Australia
or darkest Peru maybe?
And why?
Destiny or fate,
commute or final
mission, maybe
just annual tradition?
The plane has long passed
but still it rumbles.

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10 responses to “Rumbling

  1. If it was heading to the USA I’m sure there is someone who knows it all including what they have eaten on board : ) But seriously, I like your simple observation leading to big thoughts.
    “What far flung foreign shores are they destined for?” is captivating. And the last lines are pointing beyond.

  2. Such a nice poem, Abi….I often do this and wonder where they’re going or coming back from…’The plane has long passed but still it rumbles’. Lovely write 🙂

    • Thanks Louise 🙂

      Your comments are always like raindrops of pure nectar, I was sitting in my mother’s beautiful garden when I wrote this.

    • Thanks Shan 🙂

      Yes, of course! Santa would be saving his reindeer for the big night, so using Easyjet would be the obvious choice 😉

  3. Yep, just another poem?… but one that is particularly poignant. For me, It conjures an image of lying in the grass, in a field somewhere (enter stage right Craig Morris), looking up into a clear sky, with nothing but nature around you and the clear fresh air in your nostrils, when the intrusion of a jet plane seems like a momentary, but tolerable interruption that serves only to fuel your daydreams – momentarily – to remind us it’s not easy for some of us to get away from the city and that there is always somewhere else to go.

  4. I like this poem a lot. I love planes in the sky. The contrails always spell adventure, but I always feel a pang of guilt when I think about all the products that we fly all around the world so that we can have Swiss chocolate with Madagscan vanilla, or Kiwi fruit from New Zealand and bananas from Ecuador and all the pollution we send into the sky when what we should do is eat was is local.

  5. Reminded me of a short story by Julio Cortazar. And for that reason alone I enjoy the poem immensely.

    That fact it’s pretty great as well probably has something do with liking it as well.

    Excellent work.

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