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The Hours
by Cesca Janece Waterfield What will you tell her of the river you crossed to see me in a shuttered state? What will you make of the slip, the boatswain’s oath that small craft launch, others land? Which forecast did you believe when you charted your beleaguered course and nailed it to the post? And to your wife, what will you say of the hours? Tell her I brought you down hard against a vulnerable channel to the boathouse, to look in eyes where gathered light from shutters opening on fresh evening. Tell her when the mail carrier whistles in the morning, they will close.
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