The old ferry

A slop of water rocks the ferry,
that lifts, and drops a little; while
up the muddy sand the wavelets run.
I am looking for the ferryman

till he comes out from somewhere,
and is suddenly present;
and we silently make a deal,
for the ferryman is quiet and firm,

deliberate in his working.
He has a waterman’s job to do,
and I am it. He gets us going:
he’s not given, I presume, to talk,

so I give myself to the crossing,
to the water and the while,
and the rocking wave-borne boat,
and try to forget the bank I’ve left,

and the darker bank to come.
I peer deep into moving mists,
or down at my restless hands,
or at the bow, at the wake we leave.

The ferryman works the wooden oars,
his back sculls us across dark water,
his eyes – drawn back by his neck – look
back alert, but never snag my face.

The space between us is the space
of all that ever happens, and all
that ever will be. And he doesn’t allow
that gap to close, nor ever looks at me.

 - Brian Walter