Coming Home

By JamesF

Wed, 24 Sep 2014
  • 358 reads
1 comments
 

Bags packed, the airport road crowded
heading north, where wild ones play,
young Saudi men fantacizing about leaving,
shooting the highways and weaving between lanes.

Into the swelter of midnight September,
helter-skelter locals buzz in airport freedom,
expatriates similarly fixated, checking in
with thousand-mile stares, mind takes wing.

Planes leap ecstatically from runways, flying
toward cooler climes, transferring time zones
over Iraq and Syria, reaching for Europe,
a clearer atmosphere, free from thunder.

Arriving in Amsterdam, Schipol moves serenely
as usual, while the ageing bar manager says
she’s retiring in December, I drink and smoke,
laugh and chat with old lags.

They try to convince me life on the wing
is always a life sentence, an addiction
that cannot be kicked, and should not be,
part of a club, a lag I now am.

JRTF
24/10/14

Certificate U
Poem

Comments

Submitted by Philip Sidney on

I like this poem too, the fraternity of travellers.  Makes me a little sad as it reminds me of how far away some of my children are.  I love airports and stations, a great evocation.