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Birds pass bodily through the tree,
Through the scattered halo of light
Green, their wings tilting to direct
Them through its shaded corridors,
And out, into the restless evening
Air, where the sound of an engine,
Miles distant, drones like a scoured
Bowl. It is an aircraft—a glimmer
Of white, its fuselage coloured in
Places, blue and red, the figure of
A distant speed and force, bearing
Itself up through the branches, as
A gull hovers almost motionless
In its gentle height. Untouchable,
As if illustrated in minute ébauche
On an overbright background, it 
Shimmers and vacillates, broken
In its image by the interceding gas
And heat, as stars may be known
Only by the tardif light that they
Bestow. The vast attelage lifts out
Of all the dull frame that surrounds,
Breaks the green corona it had
Travelled slowly through, warping
Into the open air of evening, bulk
And impetus bent towards its far
End. Its sound seems to die, and in
Dying invest the air with melodies :
That we are left to speak among us,
Each of us held in what he had seen.