Over heads of fellow travellers
and padded backrests
through the mean slot of cabin's port
I peer at the sliver in the east
of faint scimitar pale old moon
as the sky lightens, knowing
we'll soon be landing at Heathrow.
Out there cold as snake skin
alien in thick shrouds
of scudding skimming clouds,
moist with clammy trails,
lifts cradles us all
in controlled descent, the wing
in tight chest suspension over Heathrow.
Opens, between wing and cloud
a sudden window, my first view
of the soft, the green and ancient
countryside of England,
meadows vague and soft,
lanes between horse guards hedgerows,
as we touch down at Heathrow.
Now in full view of crowded 747
floods of sudden emotion
drive unannounced tears
to my eyes and I, a boy again
relive with Wordsworth and Williamson
all the vicarious pleasures of youth
real at last as we land at Heathrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem