Dad was on ASDIC Aboard his wartime MTB
Sending sound deep down into that Indian sea
Listening for faint echoes of the enemy
To hunt down and depth charge mercilessly.
But distinguishing U-boat from whale or shoal
Proved all-but all-too-ambitious a goal,
Seeking needles in haystacks, blind as a mole
At the bottom of a three thousand mile wide hole.
They’re hunting for echoes in my ‘ocean’ today
Of some sort of ‘attack’ from the day before yesterday
That capsized my capacity to speak and to think
And set my right hand side on the blink.
I’ve had scans, more scans and tests aplenty
With the last word in Doppler, ultrasound technology
Searching for the slightest, faintest hint of refrain
Of the cunningly-camouflaged cause of this bane.
But ‘The Water is Wide’, as the troubadour sings –
Could be any one of a million things
Too tiny to discern, or lost in the crowd:
A still, small voice in a wilderness loud.
