Those Dreams I Was Telling You About Poem by Richard George

I am running away, to start with
From a plane crash, or a plague,
Faster, faster, just
To stay aloft; then wheeling,
Immelmann turns, always alone
In landscapes more familiar
Than any I have seen,
Technicolour sadness,
Pleasurable terror,
Racing along roads once,
Never again travelled in life,
Electrics by railway lines,
Flat-blocks where I loved
In another dream boarded up
And not a soul to hold me.
This world is more real:
I fall awake, woozy
And it pulls me back from shadows
And one of these mornings
I shall not come down.