Passenger on the Ferry

When they carried her on board
inert into our company,
hands lifting the saline drip,
her son as psychopomp,
I thought we had boarded
Charon's ferry on its winter course,
summoned to embark with Thanatos.

Images peeled back from hidden
waves, glissade of passing lights,
our vessel moving imperceptibly;
passengers and crew somnambulists
engaged in games of chance, detached
from the dark vigil at their core.

My mind was held by her
uncomprehending gaze, the withered
arms that once had tended
olive groves and goats; the naked
and emaciated face, the son's hands
clasping hers as if to give her life
or fend off fate.

The dark annunciation of that presence
hovered over them. I sensed the last threads
strain as if to part, when anonymity
of sky and sea exploded into light,
the harbour opened like an angel's heart.

Strong arms cradled her, and bearers
carried her ashore, the anchor-chain
and siren shrieking haste. Darkness
closed across the wake, obscured
the drama in the port: epitaphios
or epiphany, the impatient ferry
captain did not wait to see.