Ghosts of the Interim

An old Alaskan fishing boat, decaying as she sits upon wooden blocks, a few letters of her once proud name visible on the tarnished hull. Add the reflection of some bystanders in the front window of the pilot house and you have the basis for the story told below.

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.