In Skyship we ride the cloud-swell,
dark, bulging hull swinging low
and snow-white sails stacked up high
camouflaged on the round cumulus waves.
“Just another pillowy pile” the tale we sell
to the ground below
(who very much wants to believe our lie).
“A curious formation” says Earth to her slaves.
And we laugh at that,
oh you should hear us laugh at that–
the Captain and I–
rolling on the sun-spattered deck, blue sky
in our faces, guffawing and chortling
at our incredible success,
then peering down, watery-eyed
over the starboard side at the silly ground–
desperately bending the shapes
to fit what it knows:
that there is no ghost-ship,
only more blue beyond a queer floating cloudscape
that will surely change into something else
when the westerly wind
First published in THE MAGE.