This blind ferryman has eyes,
Eyes he remarks to himself are for seeing,
His spaniel sits next to him, at knee height, and barks,
He adjusts his favorite wide brimmed hat,
He drives the setting pole into the shelf of the shoreline. Sometimes there is shallow water there. Tonight only coarse mud.

He is cunning in the ways of this river.
Uncommon currents are familiar to him.
He is the Master of this trip, an expert navigator.
As familiar with this voyage as the creases and folds of his favorite hat.

A deadhead crossing over the river Alastor, back to his ferry slip.

The blind ferryman has arms.
Arms to move his craft.
Strong shoulders and calloused hands provide for engine and grip.

He never slips, never misses his mark.
His feet are sturdy on the buoying deck of this barge.

His spaniel is his only crew. A caring, loyal, spotted creature. A friend at the ready. When his hat is lost to the temperament of the wind, sacrificed to the flow of water, his friend will dive, swim, and retrieve it. A precious possession for them both. Part of the bond between them.

The blind ferryman has worked a long day. Day has become night.
He feels the fatigue that he loves.
Hard work is his satisfaction.
Sore forearms from the rhythm of lift, place, push.
Soft agony and musical tension as his long back muscles are plucked in repetition.

The craft, his crew, and his body are a complete entity. They work as one.
One last time.

Something about the humid air, the temperature of the sweat on his skin, and the bitter taste in his mouth hints that this night is his last. Such a simple crossing will go incomplete this night.

The blind ferryman has dreams,
Dreams that save him from omens of death

He dreams lovingly of his family,
Father, mother, daughters, wife,
Nostalgia, heart and pride in step with the meter of lift, place, and push.

But he knows this is a deceptive image.

An image he chooses to dream instead of that which is more true.
More true, what a strange truth that is,
he remarks to himself almost loud enough to hear.

His memory has feelings that are not nostalgia, heart and pride.
Those good feelings are his light but they are at the center of thickening layers of opacity.

The inner places begin to reflect the outer ones.

He is out in the channel now.
Absorbed in fog with only the light of one lantern, atop a single eight foot mast.  Like that lantern he must cling to the only beacon left in his dreams to ward off the night and the nightmares.

Nightmares full of pain.
An escape to sleep that never brings resolution.
He tries to remind himself that his daily crossing is all he needs to escape the darker parts.
A simple thing for a skilled navigator.
Why then do I bring those parts on this voyage? he asks himself with a whisper.

He has ignored the long hours of service that kept him away from his now empty home.
The excessive **** alight in his pipe.
The pervasive drink stowed between the gunwales and the crates.
The things that have made true escape impossible.

No escaping that on this night.
He is no longer the skilled navigator.

What is incomplete never happens,
And his crossing of the river Alastor is not yet complete.
Life is all around. Present in sound, shape, and smell, but invisible to him.

He is a blind ferryman.
He is close enough to the slip to cast a mooring line but too far to dock.
All that is left is a simple connection
A connection not made

A splash
A favorite hat floating on water
A spaniel retrieving it