Crossing

Oars moving water and clicking in their rowlocks.
But in the darkness of night I cannot see from where the boat comes.
A lantern lights above its bow, steady it flickers over placid sea.
The tide is lapping gentle and slow,
and as the lantern nears I hear the trickle of water being parted by the keel,
before it meets the pebbled shore.
There is no speaking as he hands me dusty bottles that tinkle as I load up my cart.
Kentish wool for French brandy there’s never been a finer trade.
And we sit and gaze at the moon.



9 lines