The Crossing

 

No sense of coming home
in the shore approach,
no figure on the weathered prow
to gauge a distance,

The slow swell regular
beneath the keel,
the freeboard high. Into
the stiller waters, where the line

Is held, and taken in,
but no eye to take the measure
of the eye. Who moves,
goes about in silence.

The heart’s search, that brief time
when waters widened
and the hills drew far away, now
no horizon stays the night.

 

 

The Muffled Drum