Off the end of the map the seas are rough and dangerous, the skies sing to the water and cover the islands with darkness - there is no negotiating here, no map by which to steer, the end of the world is nigh - right over there, and my compasses are negligent, austere, even the stars are different, to be here is difficult, there is nothing by which to navigate, orientation a dizzy thing, wound with turning, and even now I am not sure there is a way back.next poem