In The Belly Of The Whale.

 

In a silent chamber

a disc of shining gold

has crossed the void

for thirty five years or more,

a blink in its ultimate journey

to exit the solar system

and span the galaxy.

 

This Voyager –

spinning, spiralling, swooping

in a cold, dark, vacuum.

Waiting to sing

for unknown creatures

at the other side of the sky,

whilst the pale blue dot

of planet earth disappears

in the rear view mirror

of this solitary traveller

in the depths of space.

 

Onward.

Ever onward.

 

The sound of thunder, surf and wind.

The plaintive cries of birds and whales.

 

Greetings spoken

in the ancient and modern

tongue of man.

 

Blind Willie Johnson’s screaming howls

of guitar and downtrodden blues.

Chuck Berry rocking like a dervish

and the chaotic chimes of Mozart.

 

All unheard.

Waiting to be discovered,

to be understood

by others.

 

Casting human souls

into the cosmic breeze.

 

Transmitting

on all frequencies,

yet – no response

for ever and ever

without end.

 

A plaintive,

sincere, message

etched upon

Its casing

from a civilisation

who have, probably,

passed into oblivion

through war, plague

or hunger.

 

 

“To the makers of music –

All worlds, all time”