A Brexit poem by Liz Lefroy
Climbing out of Birmingham, we look down
on runways cushioned by grass fields,
diminishing cars, roads, slate roofs
lined up beside dark trees.
We retrace ourselves at altitude,
head back north-west,
have hardly started when land gives way
to sea flecked white with foam.
Up here we note the geography of flight:
the gap of the Mersey, the shore of Ireland,
and in-between, a wind farm, its tiny blades
paddling the air, pushing us further away.
We see Britain for what it is now:
dense and small—so attached to its edges.