Photo by Breno Machado on Unsplash

 

In the year-of-our-Lord 1972,

there’s only so much reading one can do,

only so much listening to storms rumble in

from far horizons.

We think this earth is solid under us,

but talk to a seismologist,

then you’ll quake.

We carry this dream of solidity

through time and space: 

in hospital, at the grave-side, through tattered lace

everywhere our dream allows us to live.

Hoping, just hoping

that we’re travelling towards

 harbour

and not heading straight into

the eye of the storm.