The Voyage Home

Grady McMurtry

28 April 1941

The Voyage Home

When I had played my role as fool,

I stood beside an inky pool

Of jet, which on its surface bore

A phantom fleet, each knew one oar

To guide its course. And as I stood

I saw the curtains of each hood

Were black and wet, and this seemed strange.

For though I looked, within the range

Of sight there was no storm, no foam

To slash and drench; the darkened dome

Was still. A gentle wind breathed through

The lofty sail, yet of the crew

I saw not one to man the sweeps,

And yet we moved across the deeps

To where a darkened funnel led

Beneath the curving overhead.

The current moves more swiftly here,

It feeds the treadmills of a weir

Of jagged rocks beneath the lashed

Foam of the water, bubble splashed

The cavern wall stands to the tides

That sluice its worn, eroded sides

And candles gutter in their wicks

As ever faster rolls the Styx.

It beats the shadowed air to whirl

Above the frightened dead, its purl

Becomes a raging, snarling stream

Through which the boats are shot, the scream

Of those who hoped for peace in Hell

Is drowned beneath the rushing swell

Of sound that thunders through this cave

Beyond the portals of the grave.

In clusters drift the sodden boats

Upon the bay, wet sluggish motes

They bob and dance among the waves,

To wind and tide they are as slaves

That know no motive of their own

But lie within the fluid zone

Of force that moves them as it wills

To where the rushing water stills

And spreads into a placid sea.

The pilgrims sag on bended knee

In thankfulness unto that form Who

held them through the mortal storm;

For there, beyond the torrent’s roar,

In swinging tiers above the shore

Where Lethe’s rolling combers break

Lies, coil on coil, our Mother Snake.

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