The Isle Of The Dead Poem by Michael Foster

In waters murky far away
In waters dismal and dark far from places bright and gay
Away from where the living are
In silent waters beneath the stars
Lies the isle of the dead

In the still and silent lake
Is the place where living die and leave behind their worldly wake
Be warned! Is the urgent cry
From stone and sea and tree and sky
Near the island of the dead

Also warns the oarsman of the boat
Who steers with fright but follows nonetheless the chosen route
With, at bow, the woman clad in white
Who clasps the ornate coffin tight
When she sees the isle of the dead

Smooth waters broken by painted prow
And the isle caught in sight of the woman's trembling brow
Embowers, light but truly dark
And beckons to the feeble funeral ark
‘Tis the isle of the dead

When on the shore the boat does land
When pulled the ship onto the shore of stone and marble bland
The wind is raised and boat does tip
And from the dipping ship she slips
Onto the isle of the dead

Dismal echoes bounce from wall to wall
When slips she of on bended knee the decorated funeral pall
The only mourners, the swaying trees
And the rocks and the sky and silent sea
On the isle of the dead