FLOTILLA

From the upstairs bedroom, looking down and north
To Barters Creek, where arctic mist is rising
In bitter cold, a line of ducks surprises:
The usual four or five are steaming forth

A whole flotilla twenty vessels strong,
Moving in proud, exact procession, precise
As a naval column, spaced to a nicety–
Unreal, until I realize they belong

To a phantom fleet. The sun has shone in from behind
And glistened off the whorls of my grandfather’s spool
Bed, and reflected onto the window’s fooling
Pane. The truth is a loss. I’m disinclined

To say goodbye to the trim and plucky armada,
Sailing saucily east in frosty regatta.

(142, December 26, 1993)

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