At sea at last:
released from time mechanical and mercantile.
The sun and stars slew and wheel,
clouds roll and 'bergs drift.
Gulls follow, for a time,
but a barque on the ocean
marks no earthly motion:
no passage is apparent from the waves' convulsion.
Wind-light, sun-bright sails, full-bellied,
merely repeat the shining bulge of the sea.
To itself from estuaries it gathers epochs
—streams within eternity—like mercury,
swallowing all into one smooth sphere of time
that is no longer time
but only a shimmering, filling the eyes and brain.
And landfall:
headlands rear at either hand.
The island shores and riverbanks
fold lips of silt around the feet.
This great St. Lawrence reannoints me,
reacquaints me with close increments of time;
but I lose count,
I lose track of what I should be numbering.
Into the tributaries by canoe,
skirting rapids, skimming pools,
the eyes and ears take note of moments.
I pull on my paddle, raise it above and ahead;
and from its arc in the sun,
water drops in a plangent arpeggio.
Fish scales flash beneath me
in soundless harmony with prismed waves.
Behind me, my Algonkin companion
pokes me in the ribs.
"Stop dreaming," he means:
"we have places to go, things to do,
and it's already half-past one."
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