My lady's voice on the phone
Like an electric thread of silk
Drawing me through night and thought
To a stormy city
A handful-hundred miles away.
'There's thunder
Can you hear it?'
I hear
Something too fine, too balanced
To be called tangle,
Too wisely innocent of plans, devices
To be named weave.
I press the plastic closer,
Try to bring her nearer.
'Can you hear the thunder?'
But the gale is drowned,
The rain hushed;
Thunder quieted.
She speaks,
And a gentler force
Overwhelms all of them.

© Iain Banks 1983