The man in the wind and the west moon

I saw Charon again last night.
It was a particularly high tide with heavy winds, I should have guessed he’d try again. The creepy old bastard.

The house was rattling like a Pharaohs jewelery box as I staggered downstairs in my dressing gown, gasping for a ciggy and a cuppa in a feeble attempt to placate my aggressive insomnia.
Ugh! Morpheus, Morpheus where art though? Come back you elusive little git, even Hierophants like me need a decent kip now and again!

The kitchen was ghostly in the moonlight, funereal – maybe that’s what made me pad silently to the window. I was hoping to see her again, the Goddess, it was her type of weather (she’s fussy): lunar atmospherics, slight chill in the air, and that sensation of imminence, pregnancy and expectation.

The first thing that hit me was: Christ these windows need cleaning! After I’d been released from that initial horror and actually looked through the glass, my somewhat black and careworn heart received another jolt – almost equal in amplitude to the former, but infinitely more…tiresome.

Out on the fizzing, moon silvered platter of the sea, something gleamed and shimmered even brighter, terrifying in its bone white fluorescence.
Charon is his white robe and little black boat!

There he is again like a stale fart plying his trade on the Styx, eternally ferrying souls to Hades. Maybe his metaphysical Satnav is on the blink, this is the Irish Sea you plonker!
Fuck off and get a life! Oh the delicious irony.

He’s always a bit 'previous’, I haven’t even played chess with death yet.
Mind you I don’t fancy my chances, forward thinking has never been my forte.
I much prefer to get lost in life, immerse myself in its tingling symbolism – like a man who eschews a brolly in a downpour because he wants to feel the weather on his face, a reminder of his body in the world.
Nothing between me and the raw ‘IT’ of existence.

Anyway, I waved, pulled a few faces and then gave him the finger. I Swear I saw him shudder? He sat down in his little craft and began the slow row back to the Stygian shit hole he came from.
Good riddance knobhead!

Oh the emotional vicissitudes of this hermetic odyssey!
Whenever I see Charon bobbing about in his boat in the chill of the night, a few lines of Dylan Thomas always crawl like a glistening lizard into my consciousness:

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.