wordsout by Godfrey Rust                                       The sailing of the ark  45 of 45  HOME     


I remember how one night some years ago,
driving alone on the M25, I saw 

a 747 blinking in the sky and thought of you
flying back from America, those dreams 

broken like stubborn heresies, your seeming failure
broadcast to those who love you, 

Katherine and Charlotte a consolation, with all
your fragile certainties intact and still 

convinced of our gift for sin. The lights
of Heathrow beckoned someone home—it might 

be you or me up there in all that darkness,
aching for landing, locked into that beam 

as keen as radar, drawing us slowly down
in endless circles, moths to His great flame.

driving alone on the M25 A friend has commented that this must be fantasy, but it is not. I was alone in the car. The car was not, of course, alone on the M25.