CROSSING THE ST JOHN'S
Dawn was but a whisper of rose
when I crossed the river, the wide
St John's that slowly, darkly flows.
A city slept on either side,
slept and dreamed while I traversed
the empty hours of the night.
In silence still it lay immersed
as I journeyed toward the light,
faint and far, beyond this span;
at ocean's edge I'd find the sun.
Beneath me, now, the St John's ran,
hours marked since I'd begun,
pilgrim to a distant shore.
A whisper of rose before me lay
and I'd less than an hour more
to the Atlantic and the day.
Stephen Brooke ©2010
It's not at all typical of me to write this sort of semi-imagist poetry, to try to downplay my (usually strong and opinionated) viewpoint in favor of description. But I did it anyway this time and attempted to go mostly for mood. Rhymed tetrameter here.
Not that it matters one bit to the poem, but the crossing of the St John's River I reference here would be at the city of Palatka, which I passed through many times in the pre-dawn hours on surfing trips. My, it's been a long time since I paddled out at Flagler Beach.