LITERATURE

Just in the past few weeks

I've come to live right on the edge of the water

I have a studio, library, place for writing

In an old ferry boat

Tied up on the waterfront of Sausalito

North of San Francisco

I suppose the nearest thing in America

To a Mediterranean fishing village

Akira Steep hills

Clustered with little houses

And below along the rim of the bay

A forest of masts rocking

Almost imperceptibly

Against a background of water

And wooded promontories

In some ways it's rather a messy waterfront

Not just piers and boats but

Junkyards, industrial buildings

And all the inevitable litter

A tour of our culture

Of our culture

Litter-ature of our

Litter-ature of our

Litter-ature of our culture

And all the voyages of our dreams

But somehow the land and seascape absorbs

And pacifies the mess

Sheds and shacks thrown together out of old timbers and plywood

Heaps of disused lumber, rusted machinery

And rotting hulls

All of this is transformed

In the beneficent presence of the sea

Perhaps it's the quality of the light

Especially early in the morning and towards evening

When the distinction of sky and water becomes uncertain

When the whole of space becomes opalescent

A sort of pearly luminous grey

And the rising or setting moon

Is straw yellow

Litter-ature of our

Litter-ature of our

Litter-ature of our culture

And all the voyages of our dreams

In this light

All the rambling mess of sheds and junkyards is magical

Blessed with the white cries of gulls

And with the patterns of masts and ropes

And boats at anchor

Which put me in mind of landfalls a long way away

And of all the voyages of which one has dreamed

I look out now as I talk to you

Across a wide space of nothing but water and birds

Ending in a line of green slopes

With clumps of trees

Litter-ature of our

Litter-ature of our

Litter-ature of our culture

And all the voyages of our dreams

Right over the edge of the boat

The water contains

Seemingly just under the surface

A ceaselessly moving network of reflected sunlight

Through which a school of very tiny fish

Passes delightfully uncaught

And yet only a few yards from where we are moored

Tackle shops sell the marvelous salmon and crabs

With which this particular area abounds