I watched 'The Sky at Night' on BBC:
lunar oceans, year-long storms on Saturn...
Into the blinking rectangle I typed
'patrick moore monocle'. He owns three or
four. 'I never wanted to wear glasses.
I can just pop this in when I need it.'
How on earth do they stay fixed to his face,
wedged in the socket ridges of his eye?
But then, what holds this planet in the sky?
What if it's his monocles holding us
steady - some primal co-dependency
between these unearthly halos of glass
and our primitive sphere? I think we should
listen to what they are saying to us.
I am Sir Patrick's oldest monacle,
and have witnessed your insatiable thirst:
your thirst for knowledge to conquer your fears.
You wield the red biro of right and wrong
over children who recite Gospels of
modernity: you shake them, sift for dreams,
cleanse them of instinct, all but rigid fact -
they are blood diamonds and you bleed them white.
Your oak galleons scour the distant globes:
you are the Conquistadors of Science.
Holy Wars sets creed-scrolls ablaze upon
stakes, strikes nails through the spines of holy books.
I see lost youth, I see slaves, genocides.
I see fear of the beautiful unknown.