When static ruled the airwaves,

Britain never being slaves,

morse code across the bows of uncertain ships

took to the skies, while

receivers were tuned to the shipping forecast

just as I twiddled on my crystal set

in a bakelite bedroom

before the dark doom of oceanic night

and heard that calm voice proclaim:

"Faroes, North Utsire,

north west four or five increasing six at times,

Rockall, weather fair, visibility good,"

with variations bringing warnings or respite to solitude,

while little heads like mine made landscapes

before sleep, half cocked with headphones

safe on land

while our ships rocked on the deep.