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Mollie Horney Poem
There was something spectacular
about a winter, long and hard,
on the Miles River.
Some days will never be the same.
Greying skies, heavy hung
with crystal burdens
of the wind, and air. Twenty above,
after sunset, zero.
And the snow was the problem
of every man of driving age
with responsibility. His children
were busy getting ready.
And getting ready! The flurry
of wool, and the long john-ed cotton.
A long and hearty walk ahead, river bound,
passing ponds along the way...
A pair of skates, tied together,
a knitted cap and a smile
crossed the frosted fields, the puddled
slush and slurry, hurried
to gather like the feathered geese
who gathered
on the ice inside a frozen cove,
a forgotten day one January.
And the town of Saint Michaels:
a sidewalk of salt and shovels
digging out the shops...
the smell of warmth, of oak,
drifting thick from brick and mortar,
soups and running noses tucked away
inside the bars and churches,
snowfall on stones in cemeteries
of the Methodist, St. Luke's,
and of the Catholic.
There's birds at the feeder
of a residential tucked nearby.
A sigh, a whisper of air
between the shops
from the docks, chilly regards
from river and bay.
And a waterman, on his way
to the mouth: leather skin, covered
and coated in khaki and denim,
with permanent painted on flannel.
The oysters busheled up are icing over
in a harbor of seafood trucks
and white liars, old men who carry business
no longer, young boys with no blood to offer.
Forsaken a tradition, over a dollar.
And so the middle aged...age. With bad knees,
busted knuckles, and a thermos of lukewarm
coffee, black and heavy.
Cigarette smoke and rubber boots,
bibs and denim jeans drying inside
beside a stove of wood, the cord
stacked long outside.
And babies buried deep in coats
and blankets, mothers careful
in the parking lots of
Grauls and Acme.
Stews for dinner, Oyster based
and beef, warm tomato
with Saltines for crumbling
and butter for spreading.
Just the way of things.
On Spencer Creek, someone took down
a Christmas tree: a tomato cage
on a dock. Distant echoes of a motor
lapped the shoreline.
Some men dreamed of spring time,
when the cold would stop biting
and the creeks would clear
away the winter with the rain.
Some days will never be the same.
Copyright © Mollie Horney | Year Posted 2016
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Mollie Horney Poem
Dusk, the gentle side of sunshine,
settled soft upon the folded sails.
The fresh stars were twinkling
on the smooth river surface.
And the gentle sound of herons
passing, stepping silent in the reeds,
looking out across the sparkling
of light on the sea...
...and the clink of metal striking
wooden beams, creating feelings
of past and present days, old ways
of skipjack and dredge and rakes.
Ducks are swimming, necking,
dipping bills and tails and feathers
moving, rustling in a pleasant breeze.
The wind is alive here.
Of tomorrow, things will, frankly,
remain the same. The sun will rise
and glow and set on the landscape,
the richest fields of wheat, blowing soft
and resting gentle against
the river and the sea. A distant dog
will bark at the return of master,
a man of river and the land, a farmer.
And children's laughter, their shadow
against the fertile land, their tiny hand
enclosed in rough and calloused palm,
time now to go home.
And walking along, bare feet stepping
on an oyster shell road, grasses tender
on the roadside spread their seeds
and see them to the sea.
And the herons graze on minnow,
thoughtfully. They ignore the passing
of dogwood petals and tuft of reeds.
Time ceases. Time breathes.
Copyright © Mollie Horney | Year Posted 2016
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Details |
Mollie Horney Poem
"Here they come!"
We ran hard, fast
in the boots of our
brothers, too loose,
laces frayed and complicated,
up the slope of a hill
that marked the bitter,
dreary end of the Miles.
The snow
had been a burdensome
blanket for weeks. Too heavy.
Too cold. We were red and raw
and breathless in the wind
before we made it. At the top
my father waved to me.
"Better hurry!"
And I slipped once,
catching myself in the
snow covered ice, fingers
digging, cold and deep
into the wintery earth.
Sharp, I gasped.
Fingers cracked and bled,
I stumbled on.
And at the top. My God!
Down below the river
swayed and hugged
the land. It swelled once
but not now. Not yet.
The river was ice.
I'd never seen it froze
end to end.
And in the middle,
a schooner! A sailor,
moving about his
maiden voyage, his vessel
fast and sleek and strong
across the icy wakes,
spraying frost and hardened
slush.
"The first of the ice boats."
Dad took my bloodied hand
and grabbed a rag, but I
stared down the bluff.
"How's he doing that?"
"Sled rails."
I think it silly now,
but then I admired it.
Funny, what memories remain.
Copyright © Mollie Horney | Year Posted 2016
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