Airscapes by Les Murray

The sky in flood. Marshalled on by pressure, over the many-angled windows of property far below.

The air has states, not places. On the outer of Earth, the sky above darkens to blue matter.

Lower than where Space streaks in, risen scents and particles plateau, diffusing to go worldwide.

The chill slates of that year which, blown out of Iceland volcanoes, famined up the French Revolution hung and globed out on these levels.

Cloud wisps are an instructor chalking to proof! And here it's true: everyone has to have to.

These plunge lands being water dusts that take colour from the Sun: gold cobble, diaphanous frolic, optical liqueur.

A Thailand of cloud-dance, cobalt gold-cracked cyclone Rumba that raged half a province down its river is now ten minutes’ swell under wings.

The bubble-column of a desert whirlwind fails, and plastic-bag ghosts stay ascended, pallid and rare.

Over simmering wheat land, over tree oils, scrub growing in rust and way out to the storeyed Forties.

Here be carbons, screamed up by the djinn of blue kohl highways that have the whish of the world for this scorch of A.D.

Tropopause, stratopause, Van Allen— high floors of the world tower which spores and points of charge too minute to age climb off the planet.

A headlong space rock discovers fiery retro jets and adds to the earth above Earth.

— The Biplane Houses by Les Murray (6%)