Night-crossings on Aegean ferries
hold a hint of mystery; other ships
remain enigmas - no faces or names,
no story, just the lights like blots
of incandescent ink against dark sheets
of sea laid upon sky as foil for glory.
Then there are passing trains, sometimes
one stationary, the other moving; faces
at the windows, glimpsed, then gone. For us,
the game has changed. We know that
with the earth's rotation we must coincide -
not quite - air intervenes to keep us separate.
Memory's reflex now selects a childhood
visit to the wharves - an aunt and uncle
by my side - a liner: Cunard? the "Strathclyde"?
I'd never seen a vessel sail - the lump-
in-throat, the majesty, the paper streamers
arcing from the decks to those ashore.
It's like that with these poems I send,
clasping one end till they part, except
that I'm a passenger of earth, while you
are moving fast. I should let go, trust
in the god of messages, have faith in Hermes.