A dictaphone recording its own journey,
repeatedly sent to an invented address.
Each time it comes back: Return to sender.
Low level flights made under the radar,
journeys into silence and being alone
whilst you are away: faded postmarks,
sound of a door closing, the hiss of ancient tape.
Colour needing to be itself; trapped shadows
a mirage, however clear it sometimes seems.
Any fixed opinions I may have are challenged
by your letters and this sense of motion —
travel sickness brought on by staying at home.
I am alive to faint voices on the line,
strangers more other in their associations,
telling me what I should think and know.
Such instruction may not be inappropriate,
offers possible channels to be explored;
each word and phrase turned into a poem.