Christopher Brean Murray

At the diner, elders discussed them
in various tones. Some whispered,
as if there’d been a scandal.
Others spoke bluntly
to stanch the listener’s desire
to dismiss the tales. The young
debunked the legends, claimed
they’d dispatched a woodcutter
with a punt to the rump. In a pub
the clientele went silent when I asked.
I was told they were closing,
yet the establishment was full.
Later, we sat on the verandah,
sipping saké, formulating half-serious haiku
about the wind and the dark spruces.
We gazed to the distance. Then
we saw the glow. I thought the moon
would be birthed from the horizon,
but a crescent already hung in the sky.
Light danced on the water. An inferno
was now visible. The mast: a torch
that burned without exhausting its fuel.
The sails were swathed in flame
and plumped by wind. The hull—
like the creased brow of a man
whose hair is on fire—plunged continually
into the surf. Still, the flames were not
extinguished. Then it wasn’t just one ship
but an armada of flaming vessels
lighting the night sky, coursing
towards the coastline. We didn’t move.
We watched as ships huddled near the coast,
dropping glowing anchors into the steaming waters.
From each ship, a blazing launch
was lowered. Each contained a cluster
of passengers despite the conflagration
that consumed it. As these vessels
approached the shore, we wondered if the forest
would be engulfed, our mountain cottage
ravaged. But we weren’t moved to act.
Instead, we watched as dark figures emerged
from the boats and lumbered towards
the woods. They carried implements.
It was quiet. Only the crackling
of the burning launches, the voices
echoing in the woods, the sound
of axes biting into trunks.
The ebb and flow of the waters
and of a cross-cut-saw gnawing
the base of a spruce. We glimpsed
its apex jiggling, wavering. We heard
the splitting sound as the tree toppled.
And a hearty cheer from the woodcutters.

It was a strange season—
a time of children wandering
toward secret doors. Things linear
were in question, like aviary bars
and crosswalks. I’d acquired a comb.
It had become dear to me
like Lily, but she’s gone, gone…

It was an era of wind through grass
in a zone of jasmine and chasms.
A waxwing authored a concerto.
Scorpions patrolled the coast.

We paused to survey the mountains.
A woman knelt in ivy and cherished her rewards:
some mint and mere existence.
Junkyards were in fashion. Old railway stations
served as nightclubs with prohibitive prices.
Frogs rioted at night.

A compass factory halted production
due to a lapse in the collective memory.
A selectman suffered an attack
of disharmony. He was treated

and released. Twigs were swept
from sidewalks, yet a crucial decision
had been evaded. Everyone knew
the results were forthcoming.

Jellyfish rode the swells. Zeppelins
scouted canyons. I could mention
the cloistered silos, but you’ve seen that film.
The rest was like the man who boards a schooner
after an orchard mishap. He tries
to alter his fate, but it was sealed

in Sioux Falls. Now currants ripen.
A wall clock hums. Still, the prophesy
is provisional, like a planned trajectory
or a projected harvest. We persist
and reflect. Though we pretend,
we also observe. Memos are filed,
verdicts prepared.