Cygnus flies low over Gloucester,|
the trawlers passed Portland light at noon.
Nineteen hours have forecast wet weather
and Vega curves dimly down Folly Cove.
The helmsman, Eino Koskenniemi, sails north-northeast
toward the pine gray foam off Nova Scotia.
Sister Aila; sister Katri; sleeping|
in linen and wool, you hear no waves,
no ram's horn fog, feel no lean spikes of rain.
You don't see the loud heroes debating;
Lemminkäinen! Väinämöinen! Fling him
your sky shields! The sea breaks the back
of his boat; he hovers, stumbling in salt clouds
and drops, crushed in the waves' disorder.
Slowly he falls below the swaying surfaces|
of moss. The gulls call after him; hunting
small animals, they pick at his ceiling of water.
Five days the coast guard will sail and find nothing;
an honest report will be issued by their officers,
and his family will adjust the rooms of their house.
But his son will join the fishermen, and learn|
to clean the pike into a fine boned harp;
letting the sea make songs, a sung mosaic
of the bright shell tiles add gristle fragments
covering the wide floors of the ocean rooms;
giving patterns to the hunters and their ancient fight
among the buried constellations of the sea.