Flight – Helen Scadding


We walk through dandelion snow 
in a field of clocks 
holding our breath, ready to blow time backwards.

Filaments fly, lifting across our path
in cirrus clouds, 
gone before they reach the sky,

the air thick with seconds
that neither count nor can be counted,
leaving spent stems to face the wind.

Seed heads float into lay-bys
Summer glances off wing-mirrors,
wishes roll beneath wheels. 

Helen Scadding