Voyager

(i)

Voyager in his long coat
and valance hat

uncovering the caulked boat
among the reeds.

Like a sodden cardinal
he unfolds the blade,

hides it within
the binding of his pouch.

No lantern or speech
the trees glisten in moonlight,

the sky gently rids itself
of cloud.

He wades through the illuminated
river - a manuscript,

still as an open page,
scent-breeze flowing

across the hilt
of water

the summit of a mountain
staggering skyward.

(ii)

Her child is a cipher
destined to be channelled north.

The buoyancy of childbirth
surprises her, the serenity

of movement through water
a semi-translucent globe

concealing her most secret fears.
Her labours afflict her; her screams

compromise the act and so
the birth-nurse slips on a muzzle,

a strip of rough leather,
set in the patient's mouth,

the leather a sour taste that settles
in these last hours on her tongue.

(iii)

The waiting among the reeds;
the submersion of his feet

in freezing water. The river is
a long-table, reflections

alive in moonlight and he cups
his hands in recognition,

mouths a silent prayer
to the dry powdery moon.

The eyes of a pregnant vixen
sparkle through the trees;

a tawny owl's wings unfold,
beat to the long-table's rhythm,

moulding its flat-face
into the neck of its prey.

Voyager listens, still sodden,
settling his uneasy boat,

finds comfort in the blessing
of a far-distant cry.

(iv)

The child coaxed from its womb,
bound in muslin,

carried over shingle, entrusted
to Voyager's hands.

Two lives marked, conjoined -
the child fresh from its liquid bed,

Voyager, old and sodden amongst the
silver reeds.

No longer a poor man he cradles
the birthing-parcel

accepts his gold, sets it
between meat and bread and blade.

She has played her part;
now the birth-nurse shuts her eyes.

Voyager tasks the river,
cuts through white silver,

two lives conjoined, released
from the binding of her pouch.