The groove runs deep in the plain Notched hard into groundsoil Some say it marks spacemen's lane Most think it badman's toil It is ancient and I trace it with my toe Thinking of the local fool Who did the same, and the same, years ago And I think of what fire-cool Burned in the heads of men who carved This curving snake into sheer rock Painfully made ground and halved Distance to who knows what Maybe the sailor asleep on the bar Stained with blue words and fresh designs Her faded first blurred scar Love's name, spoilt map, sea rhyme