Figures 2
(on Crosby strand)

The big ships move
stately out of estuary
and into the brown water
with the milky sky
and the milky day
and the cool fresh breeze

cargo and pilots
obeying the signs in the 
water, horizontal to the
standing men silently
gaze at the horizon

and then I watch them
turn outward
away from us
into fresher waters:
the open ocean where
markers fail and
the heart's star suffices

on the shore my
hands are cold and
I sit on a bench:
in memoriam of people:
husbands, wives, fathers, mothers
daughters, friends -

as the young boys
ride their bikes and the
dogs race by -
the voices are different
but the story's the same:

ploughing the seas with 
the beaks of our little
ships
riding the crisis waves
each one
until they subside
and we are called home

previous poem

next poem