ELEGY

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There was a ferryman.

In bridgeless territory

he ferried pilgrims to a way-too-far shore verge.

He had a hut, a strong boat: I grow, was his story,

when in the flow my hands oars-clenching I submerge.

What did they know of him, those one-way going!

What did he know of them! What did the river know!

Just that he was, they’d met him, briefly, rowing.

Just that they’d had to come, to float across and go.

And you went too. Thousands this way are passing.

Don’t ask, just go to where the ferry takes.

Pay the fare. Don’t talk. Over the water crossing

don’t seek the true face of your bygone aches.

Soon you’ll step out, the boat will turn, receding.

And you’ll go on, by all back there betrayed.

Something’s ahead. Too late to die, unheeding.

The scouts of the horizon portend approaching day.