Radio Calling

A slick flick reveals,
A thousand sonic worlds.
A touch of that switch brings home to me,
A million disasters and sodden joys.

Yet now your elegant, homespun dial -
remains untouched.
Since that day you told me,
blithly and uncaringly,
that my belovèd darling,
was lost at sea
       lost at sea.

Everyday I hear the tales,
Of 'Anna, calling from Bristol,'
stories of spilt beer, and of cricket,
fifteen-for-one, rain in Wales,
'Fischer, German Bight,'
and a thousand tattered songs,
bound together with clichéd phrase
       and tired, inane chitter-chatter-chatter.

These words pass through me now,
Like the carrion carrier-waves,
which you, vile machine,
rip without a thought from the air.

You remind me still, of that sunny, moonlit day,
when you killed my tired ears with this:

That my dear, drowned darling,
was dead. and lost at sea.
       lost at sea.

© 1993 Colin Johnson.