Voyager

Voyager One blasts off into outer space,
as the heavens were cried,
on a Monday morning, September 1977.

Where were you going? We were told Jupiter.
Then Saturn. Out beyond the heliosphere.
The rest was left to our imagination.

The slingshot mathematics blew our teenage minds.
Bouncing around the solar system.
Newtonian physics as catapult science.

On board was Carl Sagan’s Golden Record.
What should we play the universe?
No Pistols? No Clash? Unforgivable.

Your interest in space exploration waned
after golf on the moon. You worked hard,
plastered, mixed cement, laid foundations.

Now you’re a long way from home.
A long way from Pittodrie. A long way
from Baker Street between the wars.

Did you see us? So young & full of life.
That time you turned your head
and looked back towards Earth?

I hold your weightless hand in mine.
The skin is translucent. I try to locate
our pale blue dot in your eyes.

In 2012, we were told, with gravity,
you entered interstellar space.
Were you afraid of the dimming light?

Near the end I made a playlist on my phone
of all the tunes you loved to whistle
down the years. Result.

The brass intro to Ring of Fire cuts through
the fog & your face lights up like you
were back in rainswept Gothenberg, 1983.

Other days I wondered if you knew
I was there, sat beside your bed, waiting,
hoping, for a smile, a word, a recognition.

Voyager, I’m glad there’s music on board.
Something to listen to.
Something to remind you of us,

left behind on our planet, alone,
trying to deal with the timeless pain
of your absence.