Jet Lag

Two floors above an alien street
I lie, waiting to leave.
A bronze–tongued bell
out of a slender tower
(once a mosque)
tells out twelve hours:
nearly time to go.

The last stroke hums
in dwindling rings to silence,
singing the strangeness
of this hiatus.

I stare into the dark
and feel the earth go falling — falling
into Tomorrow,
and my own country lagging
two hours in arrears,
— locked into Yesterday.

Soon, carried on aluminium wings,
frail above clouds,
we shall be hurrying
westwards and westwards,
reaching in vain for Yesterday.

Yet we shall partly win:
Stave off the dawn,
retard the sunrise:
finally rejoin that lagging land,
and marvel at the dandelions
in its amazing grass.