Aliens

Beyond Aether

In the hush of the night‑sky, a wanderer glides, Past the crescent hiss of the old Compton rig –
A plume of silver, not formed in our tides, Travels when the Thames slips off her old witch’s drag.

The world gasps a quiet, faint pulse of wonder, Like a London drifter, with crumpets has‑been, Echoing in chambers, where the heart fumbles thunder, On spiralled chalk‑strips of the cosmic sheen.

“Greetings, Earth‑folk,” the voice clicks with laughter, Weaving quiet ellipses of baleful humours, Their eyes, bright beads of countless-smothered lavender, Whisper myths of the far‑off, distant rumours.

We beatence our brazen hopes beneath the Bluebell Ivy, Knocking on the unseen hallways of the messier;

Their song is a hex of wavelengths untamed, Gently nudging the atom’s rebel flame.

We are the proud foot‑pads of Britain's sun‑swept plains, While they, across vast void, paint constellations, Invite us to reach beyond our mundane chains, And in the quiet between we find our supernovas.