The Immigrant

 

The Immigrant

Fortunate am I to stand

at the bottom of Moorland

where granite melts to water,

where nothing constricts my view.

To hear cobbles chuckle in ebbing tides,

and soar on thoughts of distant lands, 

fare forward beyond the savages,

exult in the prospect of eternity.

Sail with Amundsen on Hudson’s Bay

searching for the Northwest Passage.

squinting to glimpse Melville hunting oil.

Icebergs and shipwrecks appear.

Souls and skeletons litter beaches.

Blackburn’s lost fingers,

the nets of the living dead release,

I wallow and wonder in new worlds.

Once your voice filled my sails

and I sailed the universe

setting my course on dreams,

asleep in a shoe of wood.

As you who sailed to an unknown land,

speaking without being heard,

hearing without understanding

standing alone in crowds.

Horizons restricted bedizened dreams

future buried in your gardens.

You worked as others soared, as

now do I on gossamer wings.

Days of endless joy from your labors

paint horizons without limit.

Nets fill with glittering stars. 

Where I am you are.