I’m tuning in to territories
like we’d tune in to stations on the radiogram.
The shortwave chiff-chaff
with the dial stuck, the maudlin willow warbler,
the blackcap trying and failing to be a nightingale.
And this is work.

In the airwaves of Africa
the switch turns on
and it’s 3,000 miles from Senegal.
Swallows, martins and swifts
are charged particles inside storms
that bloom like static over the Med.
Somewhere west of Hilversum
the migrants enter our reception
and this is work and fortitude.

And it’s all noise; the time-lapse of
trees engineering chlorophyll.
The way the light gets in the way life gets in.
The Lune’s analogue hauls itself towards the hills
with curlews and oystercatchers
broadcasting from shingle and field.
And this is work and fortitude and fortune.

And right on cue, hoverflies
and all the other insect gizmos
begin transmissions.
For one night only, the mayfly dancehall of desire
is in full swing above the river’s glitterball.
And this is work and this is food.

I’m trying hard to unscramble the signals
but our human frequencies make so much din.
Take away the machines
and this is all that’s left.
Pull up a chair.
Lean close listen to the view.