You were jazzy,
tempered drummer's pitter-patter
on Transatlantic window screen,
knocking to-and-fro on wingspan
bathing in blue cabin light, taking on
a carcinogenic haloing.
You were off-trilling,
when I something flourish
in primes of stolen letting,
leaving pound pints to their task,
the dancehalls in North of England.
You were balladeering,
when could have passed,
nothing more than train announcements'
placeless drawl atop bleached clatter.
When could not have been but
falling's immortal melody in lullaby: