Legion Corsairs’ Welkin
It’s a crime
To pass you by
In my sept-ballooned
Why would I not
And say “hi”?
Standing on the deck
Above in the air, a tiny speck
Of nets and rigging and rope,
Peering below through periscope.
Rough-hewn glass cradled
By iron pipes and wooden casks
All sailing along the air,
We have no country to declare.
With a galley beneath our feet,
Staving off scurvy with salted meat.
Fishing line out for birds overboard.
Eating only what we can barely afford.
It’s a punishable offense
To not let down my defense,
And lower altitude to weigh anchor,
Letting go cargo of precious amber.
On the ships of our fleet
We like to think ourselves elite
As propellers turn and rotors whirr.
Gods of places, no matter where
Stand atop our low zeppelins
Above oceans, as fueled weapons.
Stopping only for cargo,
To drop off and collect it.
Amber quarters and opal medicine,
Wasp nectar, diamond exoskeletons,
Vials of ink and court trial evidence;
All ferried by the men commanding it,
Mining it, and shielding it
From pirate and navy brigades.
Transporting it and enjoying it
In every order of our day.
No, the real crime would be to
Pass you by;
Depriving you of fun to be had
With me in my restless skies.