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Margaret Atwood - Death Of A Young Son (1840)
by
Margaret Atwood
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He, who navigated with success the dangerous river of his own birth once more set forth on a voyage of discovery into the land I floated on but could not touch to claim. His feet slid on the bank, the currents took him; he swirled with ice and trees in the swollen water and plunged into distant regions, his head a bathysphere; through his eyes’ thin glass bubbles he looked out, reckless adventurer on a landscape stranger than Uranus we have all been to and some remember. There was an accident; the air locked, he was hung in the river like a heart. They retrieved the swamped body, cairn of my plans and future charts, with poles and hooks from among the nudging logs. It was spring, the sun kept shining, the new grass leapt to solidity; my hands glistened with details. After the long trip I was tired of waves. My foot hit rock. The dreamed sails collapsed, ragged. I planted him in this country like a flag.
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