Night Crossing (Poetry)
11th May 2010
Long-ago nights
when the moon and stars were set
in a black glass sea becalmed
and the cold hung wide
to curtain off our corner of the world —
no wind — no rain — no cloud
and wakeful in my bunk —
a child-size matchbox in the darkness below decks
I listened — listened — listened out
for the crack of frost tormenting an old tree —
its naked mast and random rigging stiff
crusted hard with ice.
Uncounted phantoms walked a diamond plank
I mapped their shadows — plotted other dreams
but sleep remained an island too far off
the waters inbetween deep-frozen
and I could not thaw their grip.
Each breath expanded sharp inside my lungs —
drained heat away and left an ache —
I shivered — shuddered — shrank beneath
the weight of Mother’s best brown fur —
the coat she’d thrown across me for more warmth —
thick beaver lamb grown heavy as a coffin lid —
it anchored — crushed me still as stone.
A wall away I heard staid timbers move —
a creak — a silence — followed by a groan
and then the sound repeated — seeming more
deliberate — gained momentum— its knocking grew
becoming rhythmic — rowers keeping time
their oars more urgent as the seconds passed —
I heard the current slap — the plunge — the rasp
of breath — the stifled yells not quite suppressed
from under starchy sheets — before the thud —
a hull hauled up a long-complaining beach.
In the lull recovery was shushed
to waves withdrawing — smoothing — turning round
leaving rocks to dry alone — untouched
I heard that silence lengthen — felt it stretch
until their snores rose up like wheeling gulls
throats hoarse as mourners at a private wake.
*****
These nights I drift and trawl a mill pond calm —
where older skies allow each breath to leave
a blameless vapour trail —
some vague regret — one late unravelling of sympathy
for those short crossings made in dead of night —
and me the stowaway not meant to hear such things —
too young for pity then — no sense of sacrifice
or peace — uneasy — made at any price.
For now — when darkness brings a bitter chill
that infiltrates — slowly seeps aboard
through every crack — I listen — half afraid
I’ve brought those echoes with me — packed the past
in some salt-battered trunk stowed tight beneath
whatever bed the weather finds me in —
the fur skin tight across me with its smell —
that fusty reek of Guards cheap filter tips —
until the beat begins — the rock and roll
of headboard against wall and grinding springs —
the rub of wood and metal harsh with noise —
the creak of oars across that sea — again.
[Winner of the Chanctonbury Cup 2010]
when the moon and stars were set
in a black glass sea becalmed
and the cold hung wide
to curtain off our corner of the world —
no wind — no rain — no cloud
and wakeful in my bunk —
a child-size matchbox in the darkness below decks
I listened — listened — listened out
for the crack of frost tormenting an old tree —
its naked mast and random rigging stiff
crusted hard with ice.
Uncounted phantoms walked a diamond plank
I mapped their shadows — plotted other dreams
but sleep remained an island too far off
the waters inbetween deep-frozen
and I could not thaw their grip.
Each breath expanded sharp inside my lungs —
drained heat away and left an ache —
I shivered — shuddered — shrank beneath
the weight of Mother’s best brown fur —
the coat she’d thrown across me for more warmth —
thick beaver lamb grown heavy as a coffin lid —
it anchored — crushed me still as stone.
A wall away I heard staid timbers move —
a creak — a silence — followed by a groan
and then the sound repeated — seeming more
deliberate — gained momentum— its knocking grew
becoming rhythmic — rowers keeping time
their oars more urgent as the seconds passed —
I heard the current slap — the plunge — the rasp
of breath — the stifled yells not quite suppressed
from under starchy sheets — before the thud —
a hull hauled up a long-complaining beach.
In the lull recovery was shushed
to waves withdrawing — smoothing — turning round
leaving rocks to dry alone — untouched
I heard that silence lengthen — felt it stretch
until their snores rose up like wheeling gulls
throats hoarse as mourners at a private wake.
*****
These nights I drift and trawl a mill pond calm —
where older skies allow each breath to leave
a blameless vapour trail —
some vague regret — one late unravelling of sympathy
for those short crossings made in dead of night —
and me the stowaway not meant to hear such things —
too young for pity then — no sense of sacrifice
or peace — uneasy — made at any price.
For now — when darkness brings a bitter chill
that infiltrates — slowly seeps aboard
through every crack — I listen — half afraid
I’ve brought those echoes with me — packed the past
in some salt-battered trunk stowed tight beneath
whatever bed the weather finds me in —
the fur skin tight across me with its smell —
that fusty reek of Guards cheap filter tips —
until the beat begins — the rock and roll
of headboard against wall and grinding springs —
the rub of wood and metal harsh with noise —
the creak of oars across that sea — again.
[Winner of the Chanctonbury Cup 2010]