Finished Poem: Dark Water

About a month ago, I promised a friend that I'd post this. He'd had this sort of a day. Sorry, John. It seems rather appropriate today, with all the rain. This was originally written in June 2002.

Dark Water

On Boston Harbor, in twenty-knot wind,
I learn to spot the footprints of the wind on the water,
Dark patches, tight-packed with tiny ripples,
what sailors call cats’ paws.
These presage a coming gust, creeping up behind us,
to catch at our sails and beat us off course.

We were warned to stay close to the harbor,
but in the rush of wind, the mad tipping of the boat,
we quickly skate past Logan, and the passage of aircraft
hardly ruffles us, so strong and fierce is the wind behind us.
Dark footprints come more and more often, until,
at last, the ocean is evenly dark, sharp-peaked, foam-clawed.

Free of the harbor, we jibe
for the small boats channel, and as we turn, we spot
the dark line of clouds and crack of distant lightning.
A squall is coming,
and it will catch us already wet and wind-weary.

We turn back to the harbor, beating hard against the wind.
Dark water surrounds us, vicious and clever.
At each hard-earned boatlength, the water turns darker.
We ride the mad wind on the side of the tiny boat.
I stand on the nigh horizontal mast, and when
the rudder pulls free of the water,
sending us out of control, straight for a pier,
I cannot loose the jib sheet and must kick it from its cleat
to let it fly.

At once, the jib deafens us with its flapping,
and the boat drops safely back into the water.
But the vengeful wind has torn our jib to pieces,
the price of our escape. Dark water has won,
and we must be towed home.