Aloft he sits, this rocketeer, farseer
beside him, lights of houses rousing
down the valley, there and there and there,
his stars. Lost in the blue lull of reverie,
he raises a hand as if in praise, pale Buddha
to omming mosquitoes.
Below, a bewilder of women gabble
and slam through rooms. Kitchen witches
stir pots of bubble and pumpkin, cut up
runner beans slim and green as young girls;
bedroom windows sprout duvets like wings,
and bathroom brass gossips to gold.
Strangers with faces like pink flowers kiss
and call Poppa, pilot him to soup and midday
soaps. He wishes sky, but speech escapes like the grey
kitten. Wittering back to where clouds pass like days,
he blasts off, and lost between worlds, forgets the spyglass.
Finds it too hard to adjust.
* Farseer is a very old word for telescope.