In warm rooms, bars and cars, in countries
divided by politics and geography,
millions scan each new update and theory.
Our eyes sting burned by the glare
of light off water and flickering screens.
White crests and flotsam islands taunt our impotence. No longer looking for survivors we yearn for relief
from the latest confirmation that satellites,
collective will and human expertise can fail.
The search continues.
The search for wreckage from MH370, the airliner that vanished over the South China Sea last month, has largely faded from the news, for the moment. For weeks it claimed the attention of most of the world, a mystery, and a human tragedy once it was accepted that the passengers on board were almost certainly lost in the mountains and crevasses of the deepest parts of the Indian Ocean - but still without an explanation of the causes of the incident. The relatives of the survivors have conspiracy theories, fears of hijacking and kidnapping of their loved ones, as the only hope that they may still be alive - a terrible choice of fates for them to visualise as they wait impotently. This is poem is distilled from a complex tragedy that is still not over. It's still in draft form.