The Ferryman and the Ship Yard

 

Chinkle of the ferry chains

 

In the river's downward wind,

 

Secures the dire mooring

 

Decayed landing platform...

 

Where thousands embarked, left and

 

Crossed and returned

 

For work; now is silent;

 

Swinging in tides, holding

 

Now… Only a harbor of

 

Memories.

 

 

 

In a dense fog comes a ghost...

 

A monk, nestled

 

In the oak ribs, and

 

Leather of a coracle...

 

Sinews struggling with the tunes

 

Of deep, hidden currents

 

One solid oar dipping

 

In rippling shadows

 

Of murmuring...

 

Dark energies.

 

Chanting a psalm

 

Through sheets of cold sleet

 

Creating ringlets and triskeles

 

On the cold iced surface

 

Of green, brackish Water.

 

 

Looking back, turning round

 

At the Southern bank, and shore

 

Of shingle, looking back

 

Across the river, with all time...

 

All the history, a dim haze

 

retreated and gone.

 

 

 

Hammers now silent;

 

No riveters or the bright

 

Embers of welder's torches;

 

Who talks with that...

 

That dialect now?

 

The tongues are also

 

Silent... unheard... Long gone and lost,

 

The precious Gold coin of an Emperor

 

Buried deep in the earth.

 

 

All Rights Reserved/Copyright David John Drew 2009.