under chalk-like strokes of airplane steam,

blue melded with a golden gleam;

its edges blazed with the tones of rye

as if dipped into sunrise dye;

the day drew prettily to a close

as if to urge me not to go;

or, richer than ever seen to be,

it was a farewell gift to me;

beneath, our tree is abloom again

the way it was when we first met;

to live, to die, and to be reborn --

we have arrived back here once more;

shoulder to shoulder, inches apart,

the end stands so close to the start;

​

the stair which first knew my timid tread

now raises my boisterous step;

i've felt each contour of this abode,

the first i came to make my own;

i see vividly a hot breeze blow

the tree that saw us play in snow,

by whose naked branches i with him

ate cold prospects and bitter winds;

save for chugging trains and LEDs

the city has fallen fast asleep;

does it feel the brush of my last gaze?

will it miss me when it wakes?

here were lifetimes i had spent before,

roads i walked once but never more;

​

i turn my eyes to the other side

of that same sleeping stratford sky,

and plunge back into the humid strife,

slip softly into this old life;

not a moving cog had been replaced,

the engine runs on quite unchanged,

picking right up where i had left it

as if i never really did;

voices come like faraway echoes

from a land shrouded in shadows,

that once did but now pretends only

to know every square inch of me:

for there are pieces i had gained in birth

that were swept into london earth.