Graveyard Michael James

Drawn bay-ward, by thoughts of a cool evening, 

to a marina where sea breezes will have 

penetrated miles inland without restraint,

I drive through vineyards, down winding roads 

into a world I haven't seen for years. 

Little houses, nestled into shrubs and small trees, 

huddled between road and river,

look west across the marshes and sloughs 

to the setting sun which reflects in their panes 

like dying fire. They look east as well, 

their finger docks lining the river, 

stretching from mooring post to bank, 

regular as piano keys.

In my memory of the marina, twittering barn swallows 

flit through the berths of cruisers under cover, 

busy bringing beakloads of insects to their messy nests on beams.

And sure enough, as we leave the car,

Swallows swoop over my dog's head and make him flinch, 

unfamiliar as he is with aerial bombardment. 

And I saunter along the docks inhaling cool moist air, 

passing gleaming motorboats snugly at rest in their berths.

Out past the docks, in the gloaming, dozens of 

silhouetted sailboats, 35, 45, 50 feet long, 

propped aloft as if on stilts, await what commands 

their missing owners have to bestow.

Where did they come from, all of those boats, 

And where are their skippers? 

Have they all jumped ship?

Even at dusk, the hulls tell a story of abandonment, 

their bottoms fouled, their paint all faded,

dry rot visible in keel and rudder. 

These were the stuff dreams are made of:

sleek bow to breast Atlantic waves, 

full belly to ride the big seas of the Southern Ocean, 

high freeboard to keep the roiling breakers at bay.

A few show signs of current work: 

a little paint here, sanding being done there. 

Some spars lie aground and but most are still stepped,

a veritable forest of spars 

attentive to the expected call that never comes.

Where are all theses owners? Where are the captains of yesteryear? 

Gone like the snows? Or just resting, 

awaiting the big check to buy the wood, paint, and work to fix the boat? 

Or is it energy that's wanting?

Have their owners, like the boats, 

Arrived at the impasse of age, reached the dead end of their story 

put their dreams on permanent "hold"?

My road too is running out, as l find when I turn 

yet again away from home, towards the bay 

Coming out of the marina to explore further. 

But the road I have never taken till now peters out 

with a notice identifying its end: No Exit.

I turn around before a large gate 

telling me of privacy 

and head for home.

The deep orange western sky stretches far across the sloughs 

till it vanishes behind the hills at Blackpoint. 

I'll be home late and have to face a reckoning: 

"That was a long visit to the dog park."

Yes, well memory's lane goes on and on you know. 

Who is to say where it will end?