© 2012 Peter Christensen

No Place for a Man in a Small Boat

The tidal river of Massett Sound
runs against the wind
deep bow-shaped waves toss spindrift
into white mist
black cormorants
dive below the surface
into a current that runs
hard out to sea.

The ebb tide
so aggrieved by southeast winds
as to be impassable
turns twice a day
bound to moon and sun
to hope, life and death,
is unforgiving proof
of there being something
rather than nothing.

Looking upon the foment
I am satisfied these cold grey waves
are no place for a man in a small boat,
no place for lies, half-truths,
for those without faith
in the existence of god,
new age relativity,
and after-death dimensions,
for once the bulwark is breeched,
faith or no,
risk will claim its corpses
food for fishes.

A watcher from safe windows,
on this stormy day
I choose reason
over faith
am content to just stay home