Fog Horn On the Neva
FOG HORN ON THE NEVA
Fog horn on the far off Neva dock
A canal bridge to open and unlock:
Today I heard its sound
Unmistakable note found
Implanted down in my head,
Coming today a word long unsaid
Across the railroad tracks it calls
To me through cracks in walls
And half-closed lattice windows,
Across the shadows and meadows
From far away in the salt water -
An ocean-bound huge transporter .
Took me back to porridge oats
And blanketless beds with cold coats,
Sharing a pillow with gran and mum
In a cold unheated tiny bedroom -
But warm as only a mother’s arm can be -
Listening on foggy nights with me
-To horns open Tyne’s swing bridge old,
And in foggy winter days cold
-To lost ships off Cullercoats moan
Trying to find the walls of stone,
The welcoming piers of heaven:
Sandy river’s saving haven.
I was taken aback to be taken back
Thus, on my hustling life’s track
I forget the real roots. I need
To recall from what did I proceed,
For often does my boat get tossed
And in the fog I am sometimes lost.
The Horn’s lament is familiar
Like a family voice or a prayer,
As a bird recognizes its mate’s call
No need to ask what it is at all.
It is friendly. To it I return.
To hear it I yearn.
Like my mother’s laugh,
Like grandfather’s cough -
I Know it like my own face,
It is easy to retrace.
As I walk on Nevsky Prospekt
Turning back the pages of neglect,
I hear it in the depths of my heart.
It reverberates as a note apart
And I feel it in the mist
Of time. It insists. I have missed
Its plaintive call for so long.
As a salmon returns where he belongs
To his birth river on the foam
I am drawn inexorably home.
Bustling Tyne ships are now gone.
Only pleasure yachts that leisurely yawn.
No battleships or tankers to see,
No river smells of sweat and tears salty,
But the horn’s fossilized lament remains
In sand-banks and sea-lanes
And memory banks retraced :
Memories never to be to erased.
Life’s mist becomes too dense.
Guide me in the fog thence.
Lead me to back to reality.
The horn is searching for me
From the past through the cracks
And lattice of my old bridge tracks,
Opening my mind to echoes of the past,
Holding my soul sound and fast.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2010
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