Another World by Rosie Adamson-Clark


Hiding under bedclothes, heavy and snug,

my hands gripped the tiny radio,

circular dial, moving,

high pitched whines from some satellite above,

or so I thought,

searching, torch like, til the signal grew strong,

Fab 208, Caroline, out of this world music to sing along,

not like Mothers radiogram ,belting out trash,

Matt Monroe , or was it Johnny Cash,

I could hear it in the front room,

the oldies down below,

my small world getting hotter,

now gasping,

space suit needed,

fuggy, airless under woollen blankets,

the search for sound, thrilling,

contact made, enabled by Roberts’,

bought for eight shillings ,

I imagined Robert was the boy we could not see,

who gifted this transistor ,

to me , here on earth,

joyfully happy, money well spent,

discomfort was worth it,

hand held space portal,

empty child’s purse.