(in memoriam W.S. Graham, 1918-1986)
A black rectangle catches starshine and blunts
to a fold of fish, skimming the wet side of the surface,
tapering to the left in veer and flight.
Look back and see whether terror or beauty
has emerged as Queen of the Night, or merged,
a Medusa dancing on a rim of cold air.
The wake, the escaping fish, and now
the crescent moon to make a fleur-de-lis of light on black.
As transparent as a dream of death.
The shape that gobbles darkness and moves
forward into greater darkness,
shadowing the boat that speeds on,
under the threat of burnout.
Holiday lights strung upon the skeletal platform,
the sounds of sacrifice so raucous, so merry
that only in a dream will one steer that way,
control going and going as sleep deepens.
I have been there and I have seen her.
Queen of the Night, Queen of Failure,
boxing the ears of the bickering words
whose loyalty to language she despises.
Subversive as a night-fisher, drunk with
compass on his knees, bellowing orders
to the boatswain drowned in Norway’s
gleaming shallows. Mutiny, like suicide,
nominates itself as best of friends,
idling time and whispery with dream’s
unbearable jargon, showing what could have
been seen, if eyes had only stayed open.
The sleeping princess, prised wide as delta,
the fish mobs nibbling their undead cousins,
an electric torch, swung from the steps of a lighthouse,
the sudden loom of hope across the pitchblack sea,
hope as terrifying as what swims beneath one’s legs,
measuring a man’s moonlit shape,
measuring the desperate distance back to shore.