The Ferryman
Cormorant flew low
over the brackish water.
Fergal Moon’s eyes
pierced the far bank,
Coat collar raised
against the bitter wind
Blowing upriver from
the wild saltmarsh.
Current lazily spun
old spiles and spars
With decaying detritus
from the winter spate.
Fergal skilfully sculled
his wooden craft,
Avoiding shifting,
shallow sand bars.
Bent his back to the
heavy oar
To reach the jetty on
the mud-lined shore.
They shuffled along
the slimy plank
With chickens, goat
and frying pan,
Each with coin to pay
the ferryman.
In boat moored tight
he idly sat
Watching coins tossed
into his hat.
Kingfisher’s electric flash
of blue
Against dawn’s clouded
orange hue.
Wave rocked from the
stormy blow
Bow pushed out into
the river’s flow,
Heading for huts and
homes on the opposite shore.
A lever of
hand-polished oak wood
Proud of the sturdy
gunwale stood.
Fergal fingered the
coins in pocket safe
Stared at this lever
of polished oak.
A stretch – to grip
and yank
Heave ho! And in you
go!
Seven souls
irretrievably sank
Into waters dark and
chill, such woe!
Seven souls lost to
the surge and the undertow.
In his pocket he
clinked his coins
Plotted his course
out past the wooden groynes.
Fergal’s grin showed a
toothless gap
For he was proud of
his cunning trap.
You may come with
chickens, goat and frying pan
But never, never ever
pay that ferryman.
4th October
2016
Copyright
©2016
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