We are on the ferry again.

Named after my mother -

Special already in this nomenclature.

And this seems right,

For the few stars are out and it is night.

 

The familiar metallic tang

Greets the nose; the buzzing drone

Signal to the man in the royal blue suit

With white nautical trim to heave

Open the heavy gate, which admits entry,

Lets us in.

We surge forward like sheep

Drafted up a wooden gangway.

No shouts and rousting cries

Stir us forward; we shuffle carefully, willingly

On, and do not piss ourselves in fear.

No abattoir our final destination,

No final end to this journey:

We are merely plying our diurnal trade

From one side to the other.

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In between, a choppy ride

Across dark waters – behind

And in front the claxon shine of neon,

Lights between which we are thread:

Like tinsel on a sequoia.

 

I draw close to my daughter.

The salt air widens nostrils,

The wind buffets and we nestle

Into our coats and collars and

Side-by-side, facing forward one way,

Singly and together,

Watch as the distant shore

Quietly looms larger and swells, till

Eventually the blunt prow turns

Toward the dock,

The engine shudders, waters

Gush below, the wood and steel of our craft

Lurches a little and groans, and we

Slowly drift home

 

Where the boat men, impassive and true,

Secure our passage with ropes thick

As their arms, and we are through.

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Star Ferry published in Foliate Oak Literary Journal, November 2011