Recovered from pale blueprints
and forgiven its heritage of charred metal
the airship moves at the wind's direction
through the next world. A high
slipstream of time
brings it in view: just
bouncing, it seems, from cloud-edge
to treetop, almost a milky bubble.
Now, this moment we peer,
throats tensed ready to shout,
the ship tilts its nose to the sun
and its oval shadow contracts to a grasspatch
as it shimmers and disappears.
What message arrives from the mariner
trapped in this bottle? Silence.
A freak technology has lifted his tongue —
someone, somewhere, knows and speaks his name:
perhaps he's among us now, not yet alone.