Close Poem by Michael Cayley

The clouds close in. A plane
transcends them, invisibly
escaping earshot,

transporting earthbound me
for a moment to Alpine
hamlets flowerboxed

with begonias, to
pagodas, travelogue junks -
until I'm parachuted

back to a world of bones
where gaunt sockets greet the eyes.
Camber and pavement

are soil for the pickaxe
and drill. Blocks of flats chain us
with concrete shadows.

Back in the seventh-floor
sitting-room we have covered
the deaths with cut flowers.