After so long each one is fitted
with a gimbal and a ship’s biscuit.
In a sort of kerosene we all
take our bearings and wince wide
of oncoming bleepings.
The machinery of lights
and panicked steps brings bearings and escape routes;
a satellite’s cranked dish shows
our life to be lived – a flight-path’s
thoroughfare through glacial space.
And now the terror of old pictures comes
when rotors ring-fence the lot.
Each day I watch the rose uprooted,
the phone-line cut, the spectre of parents
in a radar’s dot.