British Airways Flight 9

Four small cut-outs of black

against black, cloud against

not-cloud, covered in blue pin-

pricks. Weather radar empty

while the sky outside burns

in a thick urgent funnel.

Flight 9 thrusts nose-first

into a hot upsurge of pulverized

rock.

St. Elmo's fire ignites

across both wings, wobbling

in the vast emptiness between

263 hearts and the earth.

Blue spindles sheathe

each engine that chew grit

until they choke.

First engine 4, engine 2, then engines

3 and 1 together grind to a halt.

Tucked in together, passengers

plunge seaward wreathed

in light.

Maybe a weird subject for a poem, but I found it incredibly interesting-especially the phenomenon of St. Elmo's fire. Comments and concrit always welcome!