Once aboard, after
the initial shock of arrival,
I ask to see the library.
This, they say, is not a place,
a physical location,
a bath in which I can immerse
myself, adding hot and cold
to reach a temperature and depth
that I might find congenial;
it's more like stepping into
an ocean, whose first few feet
of sloping, shifting sand soon drop
away into a virtual
where monstrous phantoms roam.
At any rate, they say, briskly
but with regretful tenderness,
they were mistaken (this said not
unkindly: it's not me, it's them) -
our journey's over. And it was.
They put me back. Since then
I have read no books, they taste
too much of earth. I count the stars.
I am a watcher of the skies.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Callin would be
pleased to hear them.