Caroline’s Friends

One of the things I loved, growing up, was listening to the radio, under the bedclothes, long after I should have been asleep. Chasing the signal, as one station faded out and another strengthened, between Radio Luxemburg and the pirate stations was an art. And a joy. There are a number of references here that are for those 'of an age' for which I make no apology. Research is your friend. The one thing I would point out is the structure of this poem is in a very specific syllable count.

In shi
vering sands, where 
concrete boots hold fast the swell, 

the songs 
of the waveband 
corsairs have passed. Their crowning

chase lost 
to the fade; dead 
air now drowned in the static 

rise 
of brine against 
rust.  Caroline mourns, ele

gies un
heard; her once cheer
ful chatter lost to the me

dian 
medium waves
transmitting the happy sound 

of flow
ers in the rain;
measured in eager metres