Autumn Pilgrimage

All down the long graveyard of our Canal
Half-sunken maple leaves swirl and cling to our blades.
Wild rice clutches at our gunnels
And whispers softly with our passage.

At wider river stretches past the locks
Red-winged black acolytes shrill their alarms
From grey and hopeless roods.
Sentinel herons gaze baleful, motionless.

Near dusk, the Cranberry Marsh and a cold harvest moonrise
Mark our wake with crimson streaks.

Later, wrapped in blankets round the holy campfire,
We fall into fitful rest.
My beloved whimpers in her sleep
And I wonder was this the final sunset
For my lost, unshriven kinsmen ….

A lone loon’s requiem echoes across the blood-dimmed marsh.

© Mike Heenan