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
and not heading straight into
the eye of the storm.