I thought the Falklands were north of Scotland.
They were the Shetlands, up and to the right,
floated on a square inset to fit on maps.

Pictures of the Falklands were of heather and sheep
and a northern wind in which your own hair drowns you:
a world with the lid ripped off.

So somehow the Arctic became the Antarctic,
and the curling tip of Argentina
was pointing at Scotland’s vulnerable head.

Thatcher thought the same. She thought Leach mistaken
when he said it would take three weeks to press
all that way. “You mean three days.”

British Rail ferries were requisitioned
for that inverted Dunkirk,
their engines drew a line in the sea.