In the interim between
the new and the old,
we cast our nets wide
looking for something to hold.
The days grow short
with each passing tide,
in deep Glacier Bay
along the steep rocky ride.
I crewed on her once
in that interim between
my two troubled lives
as I searched for my dream.
I watched the sun cross
our hard foaming wake,
in need of a fast cure
the sea’s soul to take.
The pilot was the owner,
the first mate was his son.
Cresting waves in the interim,
the work was never done.
I would think of her often,
a few moments of rest when
in between the hard hauls
for those clear moments then.
She sits alone there now
on blocks of dark wood,
forgotten as she fades,
only ghosts where I stood.
Her fishing days long gone,
broken ribs torn away,
the ghosts of the Interim,
all that’s left in the quay.