Night Crossing Long ago, late stars and oars upon the water, a mountain drank its own reflection and all eyes turned toward the other side. The ferryman set course for the flickering lights, everyone a stranger to the next in line, a diplomat’s wife, autumn’s child, a seeker of truth in the dark. Will you go all the way to the top? she asked, will you take the cable car as far as the sun? The night leaned toward her and told her the fare. She belonged to the neighboring country, her money wasn’t worth the wind that was restless that night, that rippled the flags on freedom’s pier. But what is the price of beauty, she said as her shadow raised her from her seat, how much against eternity?
David Chorlton is a longtime resident of Arizona where he has developed great affection for the desert. Back in his European life he made many trips by rail around Austria and beyond. One recent book, The Flying Desert, brings his watercolors together with poems and highlights the bird life where now lives.
Amethyst Review 