Smoke Plume

As the airport bus passes the factory
smoke exuded from a tall chimney
climbs toward the sky

it is a towering pale emanation
a poisonous immense emission
of man-made pollution

higher than the tallest office
block, a monumental offence
a high wire fence

surrounds the polluters
while international commuters
who are also voters

are driven by, toward the check-ins
burgers and Portuguese chickens
novelty cushions

and jewelled window displays
glittering in purpose-built bays
they pass in a daze

before being led into soft aisles
by women with false smiles
and rising miles

into the air; from the curved windows
the pollution tower, pale as snow,
now far below

has quickly shrunk to the size
of a feather – one which lies
among the glaze

and grouting of a tiled floor
the pools and rooftops have become, far
down; it’s no more

than a wisp, as the aisle ascends
and the view outside smoothes out its bends
and loose ends

and becomes as flat to the eye
as a road map – even the factory
and its chimney

with the towering plume seems tiny,
and man-made structures, no matter how many,
are revealed as puny.