The Chestnut Canoe Poem by Gordon R Menzies

What do thieves know of labour
or the depth of our waterline?
The smell of your wood
still resides in my nostrils, my
hands are still worn from
working the woody curve
of your gunwales, the lines
thereof which brings to mind
those precious curves of
the woman I love, who
knew the hours I'd taken
from her to be with you
to make you water worthy
because she knew, knew
there was a sea to cross
and we would need a vessel
with thwarts of firm ash
hand cut for the purpose
and your wood, the deep
dark water red of her hair
and your tumblehome
smooth as the skin of
her shoulders in the place
that only I have found -
and how you rode those
blue-black crests when
first you kissed the water
you cut the lake in twain!
perhaps if I had named you
the magic might've kept
them from stealing you away
but wherever you came
to rest when they were done
you served me well my
chestnut canoe, because
I didn't make a boat
that pensive summer,
no, I made a door
in the walls of my life