Ross Jackson: ‘An agnostic at the airport’

An agnostic at the airport

having arrived outside Departures
in darkness, she glides her case
into that brightly lit space
three tennis courts wide, a Pantheon high
in awe as if in a cathedral
her eyes rove up and around
whilst the unconscious prayer she
might have to say
kneels in the aisle

she reads the stories of those
also arrived in Departure Lounge three:
two captains capped and braided
dragoons of cabin staff
in rigs of red and navy blue
a grey-suited soul in love
with a laptop, the Bali mob—
suitably singleted/tattooed

like everyone else called up
in the queue, she has worked on
the loom of time; life and death
stuff manoeuvring outside
she must hope for the best
while the prayer she still
might have to say
on standby
behind floor-to-ceiling glass

Ross Jackson