remember on one night some years ago,
driving alone on the M25, I saw
in the sky and thought of you
flying back from America, those dreams
like stubborn heresies, your seeming failure
broadcast to those who love you,
and Charlotte a consolation, with all
your fragile certainties intact and still
of our gift for sin. The lights
of Heathrow beckoned someone home—it might
you or me up there in all that darkness,
aching for landing, locked into that beam
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.