A red light starboard.
Two white ones on the ailerons.
Headed north for take-off
Then banking to take on an easterly course.
Moscow? Vienna? Istanbul?
They flash brightly,
Not competing with the light of lights
But complementing it
As it ceases slowly in the west,
Spreading a red backdrop to the aeroplanes.
The next one’s up.
More flashing lights.
This one is bigger
And therefore somewhat louder.
It, too, veers right and rumbles briefly overhead.
The noise vanishes
Unlike the blackbirds’ evening call.
One sits atop our terrace fence,
And one down there,
Singing from the silent roof
Of the abandoned house.
We never got on well.
Now they have gone.
I don’t know where – nobody knows, or says.
Tonight, I wish them well.