A Window Seat

Five miles high
in our chartered jet
we fly in Fairyland,
all shining light, the
sky sea-bright, and
blue as lapis lazuli;
white as Dover’s cliffs, clouds
form a floor — a field of floating ice
below, so cold, so pure
like summer
in Antarctica
before mankind.

by Pete Crowther

Comments (8)

Beautiful writing. I'll think of your poem at 30,000 feet tomorrow.
Beautiful painting. Light and colours again, Peter. What expertise.
This is fabulous Peter and so easy to envision. I am a fan of your work. Great job once again. Sherry
This is beautiful, Peter. When I fly, I'm very aware of how small a percentage of mankind through the times has ever seen the tops of the clouds. What a treat...flying AND your poem., Thanks. Raynette
Peter, Where do poets get their ideas from, with just two lines to set the scene you embark on a poem that is short but delightful, that says it all. Wonderful. Michael
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