Five miles high <br />in our chartered jet <br />we fly in Fairyland, <br />all shining light, the <br />sky sea-bright, and <br />blue as lapis lazuli; <br />white as Dover’s cliffs, clouds <br />form a floor — a field of floating ice <br />below, so cold, so pure <br />like summer <br />in Antarctica <br />before mankind. <br /> <br /><br />Pete Crowther<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-window-seat/
