Awaiting the Return Ferry

Balfour, British Columbia

Ghostly, echoes of old guffaws from a crowd
who's wise-cracked out. Late morning,
we watch the day get darker, not lighter.
Perched on pilings, gulls bring
few peaceful tidings to shore.

Clear last night but for one snowflake
that fell into our old horse's eye—black pupil
that blinked and took me in, where the cold
had blown open a gold spaciousness. High above,
was a lofty dome, and dangling from its apogee
what could only be a soul before it's met up
with the body it'll wear to shreds, to rags
around an old shoe on a step.

I stepped at dawn onto this rickety dock.
I'd been trying to read. From the morning's
earliest scrawls on my notebook pages, all the Os
loomed up: silvery blue pearls.

Now I board with the walk-ons.
We move silently. We've heard about
the storm, and we have a good idea
how rough the crossing will be.

Copyright © 2005 Nance Van Winckel All rights reserved
from New Letters
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission