Ruddy rower of the boat called Merry Man, merry
man of the dark marsh, host of the party barge.
His arms are like a farmer’s: slight but hard
from the drag and the drag of a task –
the oars that lap the flat of the black bog
until the reedmace sways its kinky heads.
I see the boat from the land where I stand.
I can see the greasy distance, and the boatman’s grin.
He likes his drink. His myopia is a droll trick.
When he snakes into the far-off, his focus goes vague
and he’s known to mistake a quarrel for a dance,
an embrace for containment, ardour for arduousness.
I am the same. I see what I want when he is far,
when love goes distant. I can see him and then I can’t
and then I can and, when I can, I see the merry man,
the merry man is really just the ferryman.
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