To Adelaide

Dawn flights weave eccentric routes,
veering as the land balds,
holdings scarred and beautiful.
Sunlight dawdles on a dam,
ignites the midget fauna.
Apologising for our tardiness
the pilot says we are bearers
of spare parts for a stricken jet.
‘What sort of an excuse is that?’
bawls my Texan neighbour.
Below, the land is quilted
like a chequered past,
cosmetic, infinitely private.
The in-flight service is delayed
and I am glad, but not the Americans.
Just as the captain predicts
a smooth flight we hit the turbulence.