In
The Boathouse
By
Jeffrey M. Bowen
The
deck of the old Chris Craft shimmered,
At
rest in the shadows,
Silhouetted
by the slits of sun
Around
the doorway of the old boathouse.
The
wood frame walls
Had
been cured by the decades.
The
walls were dark, smelled tinder dry
As
if nothing had changed since 1920.
This
was a dwelling place of memories.
I
peered down into the clean clear water,
Saw
rippling sands,
And
in them my dad’s face was smiling.
The
lake scent promised his fisherman’s paradise.
I
kneeled in silence
On
the boathouse deck.
Images
of a young life drifted by,
Weaving
together the boat, the lakes,
My
dad and me.
I
climbed down the deck ladder
And
felt the cool water surround my waist.
The
air hung still and warm
With
the sweet feeling of summer.
As
the water lapped around me
I
could almost hear his voice.
Time
disappeared for just a few moments.
But
soon the inboard would awaken
And
loosen our harbored tether.
The
gentle burble of her engine
Would
leave our reverie behind.
As
her bow cruised into the path of sunlight,
A
distant scent of Borkum Riff would linger.
FATHER’S
DAY JUNE 17, 2018
No comments:
Post a Comment