Not quite right-angled, but not straight;
the truthís somewhere between.
Itís in interstices our fateís
divined ó it's serpentine.
Iíve seen it shimmer into view,
and then away it slides.
No compass gauges what is true,
or measures out the tidesí
oblique advancement and retreat ó
complicit with the moon ó
that every day repeat, repeat,
their susurrated tune.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Lisa Barnett
would be pleased to hear them.