At one with the wind,
calm above roads,
houses, fields, safe in our
wicker-world, leaving cream
curves of Lansdowne far behind;
we are observers of a running deer
startled by our huffing progress;
spot a panic of rabbits scuttling down
stubble tramlines to escape our shadow.
We have waved, as children do, with no
thought but to extract a matched response;
and yes, occasional hotel guests shade their
eyes in the gardens and return our greeting.
We’ve traversed the sun, tilted at clouds,
scudded over treetops, fallen silent watching
the unfolding magic carpeted below.
We are map-makers, route-trackers,
explorers, first-time ballooners all.
Like Toad, I want to mouth
sweet praise of this mode of
translation, transportation,
this transcendental balloon flight.
When I’m a land limpet,
pavement plodding again.
I’ll look up at you
floating overhead –
released, revived –
and experience envy.