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Next Issue Peter Scupham at 85: a celebration Contributions by Anne Stevenson, Robert Wells, Peter Davidson, Lawrence Sail

This poem is taken from PN Review 34, Volume 10 Number 2, November - December 1983.

Turkey, 1982 Alison Brackenbury

I
As my feet reached the plane door
I felt the old rain touch my face,
I crossed scuffed metal. The steward said
'Good morning - ' like a sharp reproach:
For it is day.

                        I hold no fear
Of flying. I need only be.
The wing is tilted and the dew
Of clouds blows on it. Then the sun,
A steady line upon the rim.

Below, the Alps - sharp sunlit wall.
My neighbour crowds the light to see.
'Where are you going?' Istanbul.
The unfelt heat, blue minarets
Dance to my eyes, invisibly.

But, white air, I do not say
That we go forward or we change:
I could yet brood, in this still space,
...


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