Susan Stewart

Wide of the mark, I dreamed again of the oaken boat
bobbing on the wild slate sea.
 
Sail-less, brimming
with a catch of weeds, the long hull sliding
 
Through the froth.
Too heavy, too empty, dream boat,
 
Hammered together by the long iron nails
that were forged in the fire
 
Piled hot and high,
the split shards crackling, the forest felled.
 
Yards and yards of night
crossing, re-crossing,
 
The wild slate sea. I saw the upturned, withered,
roots, and the cold
 
Boat breaking,
and awoke.