The Ferryman

Along a passage way of
Flowing river pressed by the valleys
I grew up with images and sounds
Passing below my window
My bird's eye view
Watched the slow descent
Boom laden tugs through
Narrows in the distance
Drawing close and always
Heading west heavy with burden.

On a daily schedule
The rumble of the trains
Reverberating from across
The opposite shore
Hurrying in both directions slowly
The boxcars rocking
The squeal of brakes on winding
Tracks with horns blasting
Late into the night
Vibrating across the waters
Rocked gently to sleep.

I was thus taught
My vocation like the ancient
Greeks, the mariners of old
With their ferryman that
Rowed the dead across
The river Styx
To enter through the narrow
Gates of judgment Death.

Humble was the learning
Such task given in the silence
A school of images burned
Deep in memory as tracks
Of servitude, steel lines
Across my soul
The boxcars ever full of
Needy dead some still alive
The boom growing larger
As I toil with souls within
My soul towards the eternal shore.