Standing Up in the Boat

In this moment

all seems possible and all is risked:

life, safety, the day’s catch

the voyage, the homecoming.

As waves pitch the currach,

nearly engulfing it, he stands

on a plunging, rearing ground,

the thrown rope hanging

between his hopeful face

and empty air, a huge blessing of rope,

coiled, spiralled, looping

towards his small reach, his unsteady stand.

Still here he is waiting, wet and salty

standing up on the lurch of the flimsy craft

leaning against air, against hope, in his proper

position to catch it, this rope

coming over to the weak inconstancy, himself—

now he takes a slight crouch, to be pushed a bit

up or down at the impact,  hands out

eyes open, face, heart:  here.

Off the Donegal Coast, 1922