When I Visit The Docks at Night

When I Visit The Docks at Night

 

When I visit the docks at night I enter a mystical realm;

what’s familiar in the daylight becomes a stage for a

pageant  from another age –a reminder of what has been

and a plea from the past for us not to forget.

 

Work for the day has ended, the docks are empty.

The boats are all secured and the gulls are quiet.

It’s night and our vision is limited, but small sounds,

as from an unseen wind chime, render accompaniment.

 

The stage is set as the yellow glare from the tethered boats

is diffused in the mist that has descended across the harbor.

It offers a comforting aura to an audience of one

and a mellow atmosphere that softens the chill night air.

 

At night in the shadows cast by the pilings and the rigging

and the nearby buildings on the wharf, unseen and unheard,

I listen to the hubbub of the ancient crews as they gather

on these docks to lay in stores and ice and their very lives.

 

I see their dories nested on deck, the trawl tubs loaded

and the buoys and anchors assembled.

They await their voyage to the Banks and their

deployment at the proper time and place.

 

I see hope in those faces that their dories may

be filled with hundreds of thousands of pounds

of fish; that their payday is generous and their

return to this good port is swift and safe.

 

And, as I listen and watch this pageant unfold,

my wish is that all those whose voices I hear

and whose faces I see and whose hopes  I feel, will return

to perform for me when I again visit the docks at night.

 

© Marty Luster 2012

The Old Map

The Old Map

 

The old map I picked up downtown at Fred Bodin’s

tells me a lot about where I am.

In 1884 my house would have been part

of the holdings of Wilber E. Proctor, whose family

owned quite a bit of land in West Gloucester.

 

But the map also tells me that there was no

dwelling where mine now stands, or anywhere else

on Mr. Proctor’s land; that nearly the entire area

of the Adams Estate, which included Wingaersheek,

and Wambull’s property along Coffin’s Beach, was vacant.

 

Atlantic Street was there, skirting the marsh as it does today;

branching with Atlantic Avenue which ran straight to

the beach, giving Benjamin Trumbell access to his home

near Sleepy Hollow Pond.  Who knows, the remains

of his three buildings may still be there in those woods.

 

But not a sign on the map of the houses now crammed

quite close together, each vying for a better view

of the ocean and the beach and the light across the bay;

each the home of joyous summer and the expectation

of more to come, but that map has not yet been made.

 

© Marty Luster 2012

Not in the Mainstream

 You’re invited to visit my new blog entitled “Matched Pairs.” Despite the name, it’s not a dating service, but when completed will be home to my regular Sunday GMG photo + poem posts. Take a look at the work in progress and let me know what you think.

Thanks.

Marty