We turned its global head as babies,
traced its edges onto paper,
scarcely scratched
the surface
of that old familiar spotted face
shaped up, boiling for a fight.
Hung on walls,
it looked so static
but in its latitudes and longitudes we knew
that people moved,
homes grew,
cities drowned
and cliffs broke.
Later, travelling,
we stepped out
across the sheet,
skipped the Channel,
entered
new squares.
Then creeping back
at dusk,
we folded up this map,
packed away the ice
and sunny beach,
stuck it all in a small back pocket
and shrunk back
into our own world’s frontiers.
That tiny territory
of our scars.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
