Every time I take the ferry
it is like an odyssey starts,
the shore of the island we leave behind
becomes a line with a lump or two.
The wide sky, orange and pink, meets
the sea that’s bleak and baby blue,
the lighthouse flirts with flashes
and the boat’s whistle groans back.
I get a feel that from now on everything
is possible, from meeting demons and
Chimaeras, to killing sea monsters
and hearing sirens. Adventure!
Yet the rhythmic movements of the old ship’s engine
is the heartbeat that makes us,
passengers in the salon,
doze off like unborn babies in the womb.
Or we drink coffee, have breakfast,
talk, read and wait for two hours,
in body and thoughts
being neither here nor there.
Drifting, while underneath us
the sea has a life of her own
that we don’t want to think about,
all on board are expecting something.
All is on that mainland
over the horizon,
and most fortunate are those
who will see their loved ones on the quay.
But most of us move quickly after disembarking
in different directions,
facing our own monsters
and prepare for fights in hospitals or schools.
Meanwhile the ferry is already going back.
I never see a captain nor a crew;
my guess is that the ferry
knows the way home on its own.
The photo I took in January is that of the ferry Friesland