Peter Davison(b. 1928)
Equinox 1980
In the stillness after dawn we two
paddled a noiseless boat
before wakefall across
a bay smooth as a mirror,
changeless as its glass.
Not a whisper of passage.
Hardly a single stir
inside the horizon
except for the rippling
wrinkles pushed by our prow
and the faraway s w o o p and flurry
of a squadron of terns.
T h e tide at its landward e d g e
ignited a s m u d g e of c o m m o t i o n ,
skittering sandpipers
along t h e farther shore.
In all the days of our marriage
w e had never s e e n
so u n r u f f l e d a morning:
never h a d any event
s h i m m e r e d w i t h so costly a light
a s w e a s c e n d e d t h e m e a n d e r i n g
creek in our s w e e t boat,
surprising n o o n e except
a bright-eyed otter.
P u s h e d b y m e r e hints
f r o m our paddles,
we rode up the t h i c k e n i n g tide
a m o n g heavy w a n d s
of ripe m a r s h grass
that w a g g e d s e e d - b u n d l e s
h i g h above our heads.
N e i t h e r o n e speaking,
we rose to go ashore
and l u g g e d away
our featherweight kayak
to w i n t e r quarters,
k n o w i n g as we s t o w e d it
that this w o u l d be t h e last time,
that we w o u l d never set out to sea
t o g e t h e r again.