among the hills
it may seem as a cottage or a house
a port of call
forgotten a small farm
but its a knot,
a well of skies
upon which routes alike a bundle of old ropes lay
twines of travel, on a decorated stone floor...
three sections an attic and a veranda
under the maps of an ancient globe
flight numbers, asif upon an old clock
a thick thick book
small rooms, waiting upon an escalating stairs
quiet
a descending car park
a tram
small clouds the width of blue heavens & a sun
planes - on circuits, wander in the sky...
a control tower..
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