The Ferryman, Cramond

A re-imagining.

This is my third re-imagining – of a story, a myth, a tale or of historical characters. this link takes you to the other re-imaginings.

https://daviddstephen.wordpress.com/re-imaginings/

The Ferryman, Cramond

The ferryman lives the other side.
I ring and wait.
Wondering if the tide is coming in
or out.
Ring and wait.
He comes in his own time,
the ferryman does,
always has.
 
The Romans set camp by the river:
low walls cut like opened graves from the turf testify.
Picts fled across the water or further.
Who ferried them?
In a boat the same shape?
oars crudely fashioned? Or
had they no time to wait?
 
I wait
by the bell hung simply, a rope with noose tied around,
from a post, this side,
to summon the ferryman.
Some ring early, some impatiently.
Some souls let others:
They never have to wait
or contemplate
which way the tide flows.
 
He never waves, nor wastes words
but slips the skiff as silently as the sleek otters.
The long single oar sculls him across
effortlessly.
I have waited so long his arrival is
a shock.
I want to change my plans
use my coins
to bus back to dense living Edinburgh
to take a train south
away from the stench of fetid mud banks as rank as any corpse
away from the rasp final mocking cry of gulls
from this gaunt figure
who knew I’d rung the bell.
 
A muted silver sun cowers behind the clouds,
a chill cut of wind wrinkles the water.
He waits now, his turn,
the ferryman, oar in hand.
Oily drops of river, like a late baptism,
drip drip from the blade. 
Like funeral tears they flow
effortlessly.
Which way flows the tide? I ask.
He answers wearily:
Many have crossed before whatever the tide.
 
I hesitate;
he holds.
Because I rang the bell.
 
From the other bank, laughter echoes;
a familiar song,
of memories, of weddings, of lost friends, catches me.
Distantly, another bell chimes and tolls.

Poetry and photos ©DavidDStephen