Blimp

Above the sleepy English fields it drifts,
A silver whale of cloth and gentle lift,
Its gondola a quiet, labour‑kissed nook,
Where clouds unfold like pages in a book.

The sun imbues its hull with buttery gold,
While breezes whisper tales of times of old—
Of wartime vigils, peace‑time fairs, and flights
When Britain’s skies were filled with hopeful sights.

So let us watch, with hearts both proud and fond,
This graceful blimp, a floating, silent bond
Between the earth and heaven’s soft, blue seam—
A tender sigh of engineering’s dream.