The Bright House

York Harbor, Maine, where the York River flows into the Atlantic Ocean

In Memory of George Garrett

I have come backto the white boathousebeside the York River.October turns the leavesorange and black. Rainneedles the reedy shallows.

You sit at a metal tablefacing upriver, staring outa window. I look the other way,toward the sea from my desk,which you put here for me.A fire hisses in the black stove.

I have my back to the coalsbut can feel the chillfrom the ghostswho surround you—a cloudof them so cold and wet thatthey threaten to extinguishall the warmth here.

You are busy someplacein Elizabethan England.Occasionally I hear youmurmur a few words to Cecil. Or is it Lord Grey, or perhaps evenGood Queen Bess, though yourarely talk to her so I can hear.

The dead chorus of that agemutters and peeps, andyou must fight to make sureyour words are not dictation. You dipa black pen into an ink bottle,quickly scratch words on ayellow pad, for it is twilight

and you must get down as much aspossible before Susan calls us to cocktailsand a red roast with asparagus. I writefast too because I think I should, thoughI am posing. I am not driven, exceptto get to bourbon and soda.

I hear you put down your pen and screwthe top onto the bottle. You wipe awayblack bubbles from the nib and set itdown again. I follow all your actions:you have made me an inker too. You stand,open the door of the stove, and blinkat the inferno, dreaming. I wait

in black sea air until you bounce downthe planks heading for the bright houseabove. You have taught me the timefor musing.

Side by side, we step, listeningto nearby boats bumpingin the river.