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stereo glow, on all morning, the cd

      at rest since its final track, just empty signal now,

      an electromagnetic aria of frequency backed

      by the wall clock’s whirr, the dryer droning in the basement,

      wind, a lawn mower, the rev and hum of rush hour

      pushing down the parkway. I hit the panel’s power button,

      pull the plug on clock and fridge, throw some switches,

      trip the main breaker, position fluorescent cones to stop traffic.

      Still that singing at the edge of things.

      I slash overhead power lines, bleed the radiator dry,

      lower flags, strangle the cat

      so nothing buzzes, knocks, snaps or cries.

      I lock the factories, ban mass

      gatherings, building projects and roadwork,

      any hobbies that require scissors, shears, knitting needles, cheers,

      chopping blocks, drums or power saws. It’s not enough.

      I staple streets with rows of egg cartons. I close

      the airports, sabotage wind farms, lobby

      for cotton wool to be installed on every coast. No luck.

      I build a six-metre-wide horn-shaped antenna, climb

      the gantry to the control tower, and listen in.

      I pick up eras of news reports, Motown, Vera Lynn, Hockey

      Night in Canada, attempt to eliminate all interference,

      pulsing heat or cooing pigeons, and yet there it is:

      that bass, uniform, residual hum from all directions,

      no single radio source but a resonance left over

      from the beginning of the universe. Does it mean

      I’m getting closer or further away? It helps to know

      whether we’re particle, wave or string, if time

      and distance expand or circle, which is why

      I need to learn to listen, even while I’m listening.

      Socrates at Delium

      What do I know? At least these

      last two mornings since the Boeotian

      ranks massed. The whole lot of us

      had been camped inside their border, sea

      at our backs. We thought we’d soon

      be home in Athens. A set of cooking fires

      still smoked behind the earthworks, evidence

      of a hurried defence at the temple we’d occupied,

      an obvious insult. The old seer took

      the ram and made a lattice of its throat,

      our counter-prayer

      for the terror we hoped to inspire.

      Across the dawn fields, the enemy trod

      through the stripped orchards and wheat,

      farmers like us, setting out cold in linen

      and cloaks, the well-to-do armoured

      for glory out front. After weeks of marching,

      the suddenness of it: the general’s shouts,

      his interrupted speech passed down the lines,

      our pipe marking the pace, and far off,

      their war cry rending the November air

      like a thousand sickles. The black doors

      of each empty farmhouse watched our lines

      clatter through stubbled stalks,

      my arm already heavy from the shield.

      ‘Stay tight, stay tight,’ we called across

      the bronze rims, cursing and half out of breath.

      Then a new shout went out

      and we spilled up the ridge at a run

      into the Thebans’ spear thrusts.

      In the push, there’s little room for a view;

      dust scuffed up by thousands of men

      gagged the air. Best to trust in detail,

      watch for sharp jabs at your throat,

      stay flush with the column, and above all else

      don’t fall. Not so easy with the friendly shields

      pressing behind, and reaped furrows

      snatching your balance. Our phalanx

      held, shoving, and forced the Thebans

      back over ground they’d claimed at midday.

      But there was a too-easy feel to it,

      as if we expected they’d break, and we’d slide

      through their lines like lava from Hades.

      Word spread of horsemen on the hill.

      A trick? Who knew? We were servants

      to rumour. A few turned and ran,

      then the rest. Then I did too.

      ‘Don’t show them your backs,’ I cried

      to a group, shopkeepers from the look

      of them. ‘Do you want wounds there

      when your corpse is exchanged?’

      That turned them around.

      We still had our swords. Scavenging cracked

      spear-lengths to keep the cavalry off,

      we backpedalled over corpses, boulders

      and olive roots into dusk. That was two days ago.

      More rumours follow us to Attica: Hippocrates

      dead, how we were outnumbered,

      whispers of the slaughter chittering in our ears

      like broken cart wheels. Though we know the direction

      home, we stall, not from plague that still strays

      in its streets, but the shame of retreat.

      Night, the cooking fires again.

      We who are left, battered stragglers, scoop gruel

      and wait for orders to seek out our dead.

      Now, on the edge of the firelight, a rhapsode

      recites an ancient passage, his voice recalling Troy,

      the dark-beaked ships and grief for Patroclus.

      We were brave enough, but couldn’t hold.

      What use is a story or a song?

      The Afterlives of Hans and Sophie Scholl

      ‘Allen Gewalten zum Trotz sich erhalten’

       ‘Despite all the powers closing in, hold yourself up’

      – Goethe

      After the war, he stays underground,

      still wary of the necessary

      horse trades and occupying powers.

      

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