The unspeakable vastness
of the unconquerable dark
speaks to our hearts
where no harbour beckons
no port waits
A calling sky lids our lives
it shields, shelters
gravity the jailer to be overthrown
the well to climb out of
hand over hand
Climbing to where the only sounds are
a popping of particles
into matter phase
We will not see stars with our own eyes
nor hear the sounds of space
our travelling world
built of systems noise
ventilation hiss and engine thrum
will seep through our lives
suit noise and visors will hide
the photons trip
Yet unspeakable vastness
and unconquerable dark
will sink deep into our subconscious
refashioning our very selves
varying what is human
Will we wish to sink once more
into the trap of gravity
or shall we run with the particle streams
out into the dark?
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
by Frank Herbert
Today’s Friday Poem is indeed from one of my books, although not a poetry book, but the novel Dune.
Moonlight feathers treetops
reveals hill slopes, shadows gullies
sketches out my beautiful Exmoor.
Lone headlights angle skywards on the west horizon
twisting along the high road.
I watch at the window on this cold night
as the car winds along towards us
(to however may
or may not be listening)
that traitor Moon
will not glint on my rifle barrel.
Gripping the gun with amateurs nerves,
I reach for Eva’s hand
and we hold our breath while
a child cries fitfully in the house.
We all have broken sleep in these remaining days.
We eke out, stand watch, wait.
For what? For a quiet death perhaps.
But in the day we want very much to live
so we tend straggling sheep, shoot rabbit,
Fear clutches my gut as the car turns past empty houses
and down along our valley road,
and a form of relief washes us as it continues on
following the river to richer pickings in the southern towns.
I move my baby to feed at my other breast
and mourn the futures stolen from her,
the violence awaiting.