Lie here little Mirco and look up at the sky, look at the clouds forming, the shapes they make. The steadfast cloud will break and reveal the moon hidden all along, adrift and ancient in all of that blue. Follow the vapour trail of the aeroplane across blue sky, to the window I wave back from to you, waving thousands of feet below; blue sky quickens its vapours until cloud fills the eye like sleep. Look at the shapes they make, little Mirco- of everyone you will ever meet, of everywhere you will ever go. Published in 'The Cannon's Mouth'