Most nights, walking out of the back door
I can see the Southern Cross and Pointers,
Always differently tilted depending on
The time and the season. Not far away
The False Cross lurks. They are always
Sliding across the sky, circling clockwise.
Wherever they are, if I trace a line
In my mind through the long axis of the Cross
And, from the midpoint of the Pointers
Another line, and let these lines intersect,
They reach a point on a little circle that swirls
Around the dark South Celestial Pole,
Always in the same place, a halo
Over the peak of Mr Bonnema’s roof.