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Flight of Fancy
Ray Stebbing
Now, when the wind roots under the door,
and the rain beats against the window,
before dawn’s light disperses dreams,
and the heat of summer seems far off,
I rise, like a kestrel on a current of air
and see below me, spread like a map
the streets of London, the ways of men.
Superman, I see, through slate and rafter,
to the sleepers in their beds. Here I’ll drift
until daybreak brings the return of care,
pricking the bubble that sustains me here,
alone in this superior air.
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