The maps were the gift of the place Roger Harvey
Inside the stiff bound books, their spines still unbroken,
the once bright paper has mellowed to ochre;
the inks which shaded boundaries between
black coast, blue sea, have sunk their difference
in a sepia concordat. Europe resembles a child’s
drawing. Eastward Asia is named. Southward
North Africa fringes a silence. Westward
a sea baited with mermaids. A bookworm
has eaten the Azores. Top left at the extreme
edge a space where the cartographer
has scribed with firm strokes Terra Incognita
prompting some mariner in a quiet harbour
to rig his carrack, lay in stores —
or so imagines
the reader seated by his study fire
with a full glass, dreaming snowflakes
and frostbitten feet trudging through darkness
that never lifts. The thought stirs him
to poke the coals into a blaze. That moment
he straddles two worlds, outer, inner,
knows the contradiction of the map
which flattens fierce and living landscape
into the four corners of a page
down which his finger travels glibly pointing.