Boatman

He smokes his pipe
Next to a yellow light
He can see his reflection
On the brass ornament

He reads an old tale
From a tired book
As he strokes the lines
On a travelled face

He keeps his counsel
Like his secrets
Wrapped in darkness
Amongst unlit candles

Winters in isolation
Log burning nights
Curtains drawn
Boat lies tied still

Frozen ice waits for spring
He wishes for daylight
He likes to watch
Things come to life

Thaw appears
Rippling the water
Flowers stretch awake
He opens his windows

He unties the boat
As the engine finds
A familiar rhythm
To the birdsongs

He casts off and sets sail
On a Sunday morning
Having polished his words
So they can be spoken again

The summer he loves
Mends a broken unspoken past
He’s back to being a captain
Of his wandering soul

©JMcN 2013