Propagation

Reading poems is like scanning a car radio's 

AM dial on a January morning before sunrise,

when the atmosphere is such that you find

yourself within range of waves travelling

beyond their mission areas - Bavarian music, 

an Italian newsreader, Moscow's signature

tune, a French church service and a local

station from Norfolk - all beautiful and strange.

Pinballed between earth and the sky's upper 

layers, each signal extends its path at nightfall -

like a poem which, on arrival, defeats our

expectations and then lifts us from the dark.