His clear eyes might have spoke Gaelic,
But were skilled, in the language of one,
As he held the bobbing world on a string-
Just inches, from the spectre of sun.

There was a crash like my heart falling,
Though soundless, like a foot through ice;
The sky swallowed all, left a few staring stars-
Cloistered, like nuns viewing vice.

Was centuries ago, or some minutes;
But I've not got the presence of mind,
After meeting my demise, in a clear pair of eyes,
I keep thinking it's clear skies, I'll find.

Patti Masterman

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clear-skies-7/