Flying holiday

It’s hard to tell from way up here:

 the sea in sunshine sparkles blue

 and stretches far into the clear

 where misty white obscures the view

 of foam where ocean meets the land

 towards where boats with glistening trails

 approach the miles of yellow-white sand

 below the wisps cast by contrails

 which dissipate mysterious fumes

 invisible as wind in ancient sails

 to fill a gravity beholden room

 which some decry is off the rails

 while others will proclaim our doom

 and yet more still cry “fairytales!”

But all the way from way up high

 I soar above the rainbow fields

 the patchwork tulips please my eyes

 the oilseed boasts of bountiful yields

 which in my thirty years on earth

 have rarely ever seen decline

 but sadly this can’t spare the dearth

 of meadows in this land of mine

 where flowers once were wild and free

 unlike the wheat or cows or sheep

 and trees were spread abundantly

 though still I don’t find cause to weep

For happiness grows in the fields

   unnaturally sown

and from my vantage point up here

   I cannot be alone

in contemplating what we’ve lost

   but also what we’ve gained

and surely if we learned to fly

   we’ll conspire to make things better again.