Monday, 27 February 2017

space poem #3

There is no space between the pauses, no easy leaps
into the cosmic sea, no place to find a purchase,
no ledge to grip and breathe; just the weight of me, a gift
of gravity, just the planet beneath my feet holding me
not as maternal parent but in anger and defeat, a fury
that my eyes gaze upward, that my thoughts yearn to flee.

If the rocket held enough fuel, if my clumsy fingers
knew the order of buttons to push, if the spacesuit
was airtight and through the great thrust I could be free,
my eyes might sometimes look behind me but the reality
would always be the future hanging before me,
one lurching step,
one free-floating fall, one anchored line at a time.

It appears that I am timeless;
a distant light travelling into the past for future eyes to see
and wonder
how a spaceman might have been stranded for so long
upon this sphere of blue and green, and  I also look up
at the stars that have been gone for longer
than starmen, such as me, have been
and wonder what other eyes might have stood
in some other time and place
and seen
and in seeing, have wondered
and with the wonder, yearned.

No comments:

Post a Comment