Jules Chauvin, Ferryman in Exile (serial quatrains)

In the dead of winter Calvin mends
his craft while waiting for the ice to crack
from January’s cold. Outside he hears
the whisper of a sleigh, or was it wind?

No matter, no one wants a ferry boat
tonight. He'd like a pint of whiskey though,
Canadian would sure be nice, remind
him of the life back home—Trois Rivieres.

There, they're living like they did in June,
but with sub-zero zest. But here he stays
at home refurbishing his block and tackle,
too many lengths of rope, and threadbare wear.

Canoes were more straightforward. Even traps
demanded less confinement than this river
living. But separation makes the heart
forget its suffering, its loss of blood

and country. Now the evergreens are braced
with oak. And now that whispering is knocking
on his door as if the northwest wind
returns to lay his secret on this land.

(to be continued)