So, how are things round Sirius?
Or is it to Arcturus that you’ve gone?
Some star, anyway;
some far-flung sphere of gas.
Revolving, circling, orbiting,
on asteroid or planet,
you’re etiolated by its alien light.
Blanched and waxen, whitened;
waiting for infinity
to fill your once-quick mind.

You’d tell me of your travels
between star and star;
spinning webs of story,
Homerian Odysseys.
But always you’d return
at journey’s end
to home; to stay – a while, at least –
beneath familiar light,
beneath Sol’s friendly warmth,
firm-footed, fixed, on Earth.

Why did you leave me, Captainless,
waiting, always waiting,
in hopeless hope of your return?
You’re gone for good
and yet it’s ill you’ve done me.
Lost, I’m waiting still,
forlornly lingering
on Terra’s clay;
while you circle, orbit,
eternally revolve, beyond my reach.

For Peter

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