We scan the skies as vapor sails,
made wide by distance, destinations
guessed at, criss-cross trails
of global peregrinations;
two of thousands flying high
'til touchdown, from a roaring to a sigh.
Time and separation matter not,
our spirits meld where'er we land,
cities mysterious and grand,
we simmer in a melting pot.
In early years we settled down,
Republic versus Queen and Crown,
three thousand miles, an ocean's span
of redefining can't and can.
An innocent, so far abroad,
an interstitial, like a fraud,
forever seeks the real me
while clinging to your constancy;
expatriate, with memories of
England dear, the land I love.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe