Bladed rotors in the sky at night,
Steady, keeping craft in flight.
Hovering for moments, light on ground,
Always making the constant sound:
Like a hungry Pac-Man chased by ghosts,
Or a field of cows constrained by posts,
Flighted sentinel of the darkest night,
Keeping watch from a great height.
(Possibly the most hopeless attempt at poetry in years. Especially the Pac-Man reference. But it's all come from a curious conversation walking home from Newcastle on Thursday night/Friday morning at 1am.)