Games at Dusk

For Jim Marshall

Sailing on that twilight river,

reefing, tacking at will,

gliding from shore to dark-rimmed shore

under the dark-browed hills;

or in winter, skimming the surface,

drawing elegant figures of eight,

while behind, the current-fretted ice

crumbled beneath your weight--

The end of the body is freedom;

darkness, a half-opened door,

leading to a dark so dense, so deep

it cannot grow more.

Try floating, leaping from rooftops,

abandon all hope and fly--

Beneath you, is only the ground you know,

above you, only the sky.

Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie