Draped in death black
barges drift
Beneath the leaden
winter sky
While all around dank
walls of fog
Besmirch the hulks
and blind the eye.
No name or legend on
the prow
That might the pallid
corps reveal
And on the barren
morbid deck
No steersman stands
before the wheel.
What wills these
barks to wend their way
Demands them to
maintain this course?
There are no sails
nor oars to row
Along the towpath
moves no horse.
They navigate without
a flaw
No waves or ripples
fore or aft,
More silent than the
agape grave
Move on these damned
infernal craft.
Unseen by cottage,
farm or mill
Past bends and
tangled rafts of weed,
By rotting trunks of
fallen oaks
That never once their
course impede.
The dingy feted
shrouds of mist
Like layers of
corruption cling
And as this dismal
curtain falls,
The sweetest voice
begins to sing.
Copyright© Alan
Gilbert 2012.
