Lost Dream at 72

by Rick Hartwell

There is always one moment in childhood
when the door opens and lets the future in.
—Graham Greene, The Power and the Glory

Masts davening towards a procession of cumulus clouds,
washed-blue sky scraped by dizzy arcs;
shrouds, stays and halyards whining rhythmically against
varnished spars grooved with dark lines;
one-hundred-sixty-plus feet of 19th Century craftsmanship,
white-hulled, white-winged, spirit birds
becalmed in time, craving to flee this imprisoning harbor;
grandes dames straining anchor chains.

The schooners Goodwill and Pioneer, twenty times larger,
dwarf the eight foot dinghy alongside and
whisper insinuations of kinship to the cockleshell skiff;
seemingly impassive, bodies barely moving,
except to rise and fall twice daily with flood and ebb of
tides squeezed through the constricting jetty;
I keen the loss of goddesses of my aspiration at ten or so,
divine glamour and expectant vagabondage.

RICK HARTWELL is a retired middle school teacher (remember the hormonally-challenged?) living in Southern California with his beautiful wife of 42 years, daughter, son, grandson, granddaughter, great-grandson, two dogs, and sixteen indoor cats! Like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, he believes that the instant contains eternity.

Photo: “HC02656“