the maid of the mist

A Poem by Richard

Drifting silently from one continent to the next.
first to Europe, then on through the Red Sea and the Dead Sea docking in the mangroves of Australia where marsupials keep their lunch in their pouch �" usually a cane toad or two.

Kids shout and play on the boardwalk in Spain

throwing pennies at the maid of the mist.

Sirens blare and flags with guns and knives are raised by the fists of drunken villagers in France - too drunk to drink up straight..
The wounds from years ago of a husband lost at sea and an old flame, which, regrettably, was more literal than plaintive .. left scars shaped like anchors.
IN Canada the nights are long and the days are lively. The Atlantic at daytime, well, you don’t want to fight the currents, currently. We lost a friend down there.
Still, the nights drag on and the cold strips of moon reach out to bathe and clothe the stars because they’re only baby planets afterall
The Daily Telescope news can be the best way to find an ice hotel in Iceland, or a talking snowman in Greenland, or a festival of antique instruments and silverware in Venezuela.. if that’s your thing.

the ripples in the open sea, much like the palpitations of a lonely heart, beat to the songs of the slaves of water �" now sleepless zombies on the marshes of California..

Choot Choot Huff huff hu-huh-ff! The maid of the mist turns off her engines and goes to sleep in the thick air of foggy denouement. Tomorrow will be a new day. And a new place. And a new smile. And maybe, she’ll have something to say.