The Next Crossing
David Robertson
To find the sea, find where the street ends. Walk where the lights hang like pearls above the water. Buy a pastry, heavy with honey. Come to a ship and a name from a story where the beautiful shines in pools of water or turns into pools of water. Then, buy your ticket.
On the smooth, broad back of water your ship moves out in the dark; beats thud from its heart, rubbing away your worries. You dream of oars turning to glass as they dip under the waves. Your wishes fill the curl of a shell; when you listen, only the sea whispers back.
The waves, your heart rises as you meet their salt breath. The lights fall backwards, rooted. Come morning, you meet another coast, the land spreading like a fan. You walk where stone courses sink into the earth. You come to the mountains, to their outlines of violet.
You are held by laurel carved from the light, by silver fire shifting as the sun inches over, breathing motion, shapes formed to the blood’s delight, pulse that completes itself in stone. And the stone yields to the eye as if turned to flesh- the light of that stone
On the smooth, broad back of water your ship moves out in the dark; beats thud from its heart, rubbing away your worries. You dream of oars turning to glass as they dip under the waves. Your wishes fill the curl of a shell; when you listen, only the sea whispers back.
The waves, your heart rises as you meet their salt breath. The lights fall backwards, rooted. Come morning, you meet another coast, the land spreading like a fan. You walk where stone courses sink into the earth. You come to the mountains, to their outlines of violet.
You are held by laurel carved from the light, by silver fire shifting as the sun inches over, breathing motion, shapes formed to the blood’s delight, pulse that completes itself in stone. And the stone yields to the eye as if turned to flesh- the light of that stone
and even the loss holds you- broken shapes speaking of their wholeness, the pieces of marble left, bones whitening in the sun. With a few lines you record your meetings with the famous monuments. The stone hills lift their bodies; their ridges stretch taut spines in the clear air.
One road crosses the country. You ride it over the mountains, ride the whiplash curves until your heavy eyelids shut out mountain walls, ravines, the railings that run beside you. The bus lunging and the rocking of your belly grow faint as you sink away in sleep.
You cross the mountains and the plain and wake where night covers the hills, where the road ends and the night is roaring. The wind takes your breath. Here is the sea again and it is arching. Here is a village crouching in the dark. The bus stops in an open space, not a peep of light anywhere.
Salt air is filling the night. The fume of it brushes you. The waves are pounding close by. Where to go? An old woman rushes out of the dark. She has a room. Now you have a door to shut. Drop your packs. Unfold the blankets. Rest now, little ship at anchor at last.
You sleep the sleep of a stone. When you get up and open your door, the light is shining in a great glass. The sea is rolling itself under. The waves are rubbing the edge of the shore. A heavy whisper comes from the pebbles. Gold is shining out of the body of the morning. Open the door wide. Let the morning in.
Carry out a table into the sun. Place hot tea in a tall glass on it, warm bread from the shop, little oranges, opened journal, then words that move like the sea wind, move deep as the veins in stone, open up like the sky, which stands clear of history. The words move until a fire of sweetness fills the body.
You find the donkeys with their burdens, the dust paths, the sugarcube houses on the hill slopes, women in husks of black, kerchiefs crowning the men. You find the herbs between the stones, the delight left in words that leap into the air. The body once loved, now loved again. Azure left. Sweet breath of air left.
You find all you need for what will come next.
One road crosses the country. You ride it over the mountains, ride the whiplash curves until your heavy eyelids shut out mountain walls, ravines, the railings that run beside you. The bus lunging and the rocking of your belly grow faint as you sink away in sleep.
You cross the mountains and the plain and wake where night covers the hills, where the road ends and the night is roaring. The wind takes your breath. Here is the sea again and it is arching. Here is a village crouching in the dark. The bus stops in an open space, not a peep of light anywhere.
Salt air is filling the night. The fume of it brushes you. The waves are pounding close by. Where to go? An old woman rushes out of the dark. She has a room. Now you have a door to shut. Drop your packs. Unfold the blankets. Rest now, little ship at anchor at last.
You sleep the sleep of a stone. When you get up and open your door, the light is shining in a great glass. The sea is rolling itself under. The waves are rubbing the edge of the shore. A heavy whisper comes from the pebbles. Gold is shining out of the body of the morning. Open the door wide. Let the morning in.
Carry out a table into the sun. Place hot tea in a tall glass on it, warm bread from the shop, little oranges, opened journal, then words that move like the sea wind, move deep as the veins in stone, open up like the sky, which stands clear of history. The words move until a fire of sweetness fills the body.
You find the donkeys with their burdens, the dust paths, the sugarcube houses on the hill slopes, women in husks of black, kerchiefs crowning the men. You find the herbs between the stones, the delight left in words that leap into the air. The body once loved, now loved again. Azure left. Sweet breath of air left.
You find all you need for what will come next.