Never before have I been so aware
Of all the water in the air,
But none to quench the thirst mon frere,
It’s all on the brow and in our hair.
“We’re turning back, you’ll have to wait,
We can’t fly through the airborne lake.
We’ll try again at a later date,
Or perhaps when the weather is less irate”.
Somewhere above the sun shines strong,
But here in the middle, in the throngs
Of suspended water in all it’s forms,
Blocking the light and triggering storms,
The picture’s murky, the steam does raise,
Occasionally beaten by the midday blaze.
Our clothes are damp, thoughts veiled by haze,
Our western clocks all out of phase.
Through all the shades of greys and greens,
Like arteries and veins it seems,
The river grows and ebbs and teems
Whilst oxbow lakes tell of previous schemes.
But the detail of these scenes must wait
For now we glide back to the gate.
“Flight’s early tomorrow, don’t be late”
But whether the forest abides or not, this we leave to fate.