| |
On the
Mooring
This boat’s like a little house that keeps turning
to look at things. Or else the houses go rolling by
on ball bearings, with their accompanying trees, then come rolling back
as my boat swings on its mooring in Blackfish Creek.
Could someone invent a really complete camera, please,
that would catch everything, constantly, for just the time
I’d like to come back to, from time to time,
forever. Yes, it would have sound. The little fingers
of waves brushing the hull which sound
like a dog at a water bowl. And yes, ears
would register the rocking and swinging and the little scrapes
of wire rigging, the panting of the little sail, a “wind chute.”
Maybe none of this is beautiful more than the rest
of the world, but a boat is a place
where all’s tidy, stowed, and safe, unless it’s a chaos
in a squall. Oh, Self, rereading this in winter,
close your eyes and listen. The southern shore
of the creek just rolled across the transom, past
the tied tiller, its faded blue cover flapping.
|
|