"We will shortly be arriving at Lockerbie."
Streaked and grey
with speed and rain;
cut up by pylon cables
which tense and wane
through bone-seeping dampness,
a blandness that recycles
again and again
like poor vocabulary.
Lockerbie's signal makes us wait.
Makes our ahead-of-schedule train contemplate
that is humans flying. But mostly
the ghoulishness of that moment,
where they must've realised
something had gone unsolvably wrong,
in their pinned balloon
which wrinkled headlong downwards.
Time enough to find
a crucifix, time enough
to find a hand.