The Ferryman

After England’s sunset blossoms orange and smoulders low,
walk softly through the forests where the lamp posts never grow.
Explore the quiet niches where the night flows thick and slow –

far from where the charcoal sky is all too brightly marked,
far from where the glaring moon is sadly white and scarred.

In the deepest pooled, cool dark,
skip a stone and watch it show
the depths of the unknown.
Join me on the dock and dip your bravest toe –
we’ll soak our tired feet before we go.

After England’s sunset blossoms orange and smoulders low,
when last days wilt away and dying, softly glow,
when it’s time to cross the Styx,
then sleep, and I will row.

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