The Crossing

I cross the water and wish to behold its matter. I go to the island and live in a small wood house. I have bean rows and a bee hive. I come and go by boat. I set my tasks to the matter at hand, the matter in transition, exquisitely changing now and long after I die.

A fog engulfs the passage. You stand on the deck and hear the water slap against the silent engines. You barely see your hands. The wet air muffles the last embers of identity. You are a new silhouette in the thick low cloud.

It is not usual to see my clear reflection as I gaze from the daylight deck while crossing from shore to shore. The water is seldom still. Sometimes at night the mainland lights are as deep as they are high.

Water shadows the opposite sun. You invent the center of the earth. Cloud haunts this reflection. Wind starts and the image changes. You turn away and lead a double life.

I am alone and do not wish to lose anyone. I come and go by water. I remain in a trance while crossing from shore to shore. The prosaic inability to not recognize love becomes a humming choir. Voices dissolve in the wash at the lips of withdrawal and disassociation.

You gaze at the water and want to change your condition. Water does not return all the light. You gaze at the water and look for your transformation. In transformation, water remains constant. It holds as much light as it returns.

I go to the island and live in a small wood house. I work in the garden. The lake chops at the shore. I come and go by boat and one day severe illness overwhelms a neighbour.

Veils cover your footsteps home. At moments dew glimmers from under the mist. The wet air bewitches. You know that water renders the shore. You hear matter.

One spring evening children play in the sun and wind. They yell and chase after a streaming kite. There are days when I talk to others while crossing and there are days when I do not.

You are the state of the changing matter. Your history rises from the constant transformation around you. You are recast as another.

I remove finery to invite death. Each article I discard becomes a truth that no longer protects my time. I recognize how innocently I take poison.

Water shadows an opposite sun. Clouds rise over the hot core of the earth. You lead a double life. At one moment you are the low mist under a giant willow. At one moment you are the ice on the sea wall. At one moment you feel pain.

A neighbour is no longer here. Truth vapours from the surface of the lake. The story is a boat crossing the bay. Time is on my side.

One day the lake rises and falls. It hisses and bubbles and slaps and tears at the land. The harbour is in peril. You see the rolling sky. There is anger indeed.

I am in pain or I imagine this pain. I am heartless in my uncertainties. I begin to recognize corporeal raving. A neighbour is no longer here and I breathe the vapour from the harbour.

Water shadows the time that moves through your house. Suddenly the plants are dry. There is no tomorrow. You recognize action as faith.

The drink transforms me. I sip again and again. I toast the blessing of beverage and the essential gift of water. I take joy unsuspectingly. It is my hope to see what I do not always see. On summer nights my neighbours and I jump into the drink.

Your eyes study the window glass. Matter fixes. You do not look out. You study the window glass and there is no time. Your life is still until the light changes. You turn and reach for the door. There is no one to witness your exit.

Blades wend the winter harbour. An amusing notion cuts an arc. The low rolling clouds and the black ice haunt the heart. I skate the harbour in late twilight. The ice is two inches thick. A neighbour says two inches can hold a horse.

You invent the center of the earth. You imagine a flaming heart. You reach for the door and water shadows the time that moves through your house. You walk inside and notice the plants are dry. There is no tomorrow and action is faith. You proceed to water the plants. You turn away and lead a double life.

At each stride I study the surface. I move as quickly as I see. I begin to believe my estimation of the ice and the depth. I recognize the drowning below me.

You understand that in a moment the sky reflects. This fragment of grace, a reshaping oval of air and light, holds your gaze. This gem sets the horizon. Ice leaves the harbour.

I wish to behold the matter. I go to the island and live in a small wood house. I come and go by water. I set my tasks to the matter at hand, the matter in transition, exquisitely changing now and long after I die.

The weather changes. The lake shimmers and the breeze is light. Passengers wait for the boat to dock.

For Rebecca Belmore's
Temple
Toronto 1996