The National Grid

In the fragile folds

and flattened peaks

of a perfect world:

a thousand journeys

and as many regrets,

yield to the touch

of a wayfarer’s hand.

Out here, I’m strung

beneath restless skies

like the national grid,

where the urgent whisper

of events on the wind

tell a tale of contingence;

of lies underfoot,

Of places scattered

along vectors of power

that tower overhead;

for these paths that I’ve trodden

and beaten to your door,

are but lines on a map

of incommensurate scale.

June 2003