The strings are fine
but immensely strong –
above the clouds, they wait

for signals; lights from towers,
all-clear on super-long-range-
walkie-talkies. Concentrate,

then lift,
smoothly does it –huge hands
on the wooden cross-braces light

as dancers, wafting
tins of human life across water
peak and field.

It’s monotonous work, this,
but satisfying in the set down.
The hot little scurrying

as each tin bursts open on the ground –
hearts and plans spilling out
over the tarmac. Sometimes

a trainee is heavy handed
put on your own oxygen mask
before helping others.

Occasionally, there’s a minute loss
of concentration, tangled
strings and spiralling.

The chrysanthemum bloom of orange
and grey gusting upward –
enough to light their stunned, guilty faces.