Flight Path
It came over at the same time yesterday,
a punctual pencil of light,
a soft roar of certainty above my head.
There’s something about the way
it needles the blue, pricking time and trailing
spumes of redundant thread.
The wind does the rest,
Spinning and casting off
the unwanted twine to oblivion.
A silver arrow of need,
it heads north-west, without thought or doubt,
to Frankfurt maybe, London even – and you.
Such enviable direction.
Why can’t I navigate a route to your heart?