Northern Passage

Silver boatman, sing to me
eyes on the horizon, wrapped
in a shroud of the morning wind.
Grey the sky and grim the rain,
trickle-down ice over
the wilderness of wounded water,
Russian frost that cracks the air.
Chains in a cloud-churned sky.

Sing to me, silver boatman.
As the sunlight turns to ashes, let
it touch my upturned face,
whisper from Cherubim burning.
Tracks like tears down a sallow cheek,
let me taste the homeward lifting,
shifting of numb fingers on the
side of my little vessel, storm-tossed, wanderer. Sing to me.

Silver boatman, let me be.
O moon of winter,
toss your stars over the moving water, your
shadowed cape drawing o'er sight; bury the dead.
The bells of Skellig over rock and wave.
Let the gulls cry, words for me, shriek my soul what
cannot be said. O God.

Silver boatman, take me there.