All darkness is not equally dark. When he stepped
down into the boat he made us snuff the whole
row of smoldering torches and brands we'd kept.
I drew my mantle round me. It was cold.
"It's in pitch-darkness that I forebode land."
And the boat-hook guided the ferry into black.
Around the stem, Acheron's waters lapped.
"There still remains some thirteen heartbeats' sand
in the hourglass by the tiller. So I won't be late."
Where we saw night's dark side and coal on coal
he steered by the rocky islets' shadow play,
and by the stone-pines' contours, toward his goal.
In the dark the scrape of keel on gravel bank.
"Here's my arm. Good night. The fare's one obol, thanks."