Black River

Dark waters… so black
Whisper as you near a shore
Shrouded in dense fogs.

Fear rises and ebbs,
Gives way to lamentations.
You stand, wait alone.

Somewhere in the dark,
The chest of a pitiless
Clock rolls notes of lead.

On the twelfth, the boat,
Empty and silent appears
Prow drifting shoreward.

To enter or not?
What else is there for you here,
Now your hour is done?

So, you step inside
Like all the rest, and set off
For the furthest shore.

George Chadderdon © 2003