The Ferryman is dancing a jig, high knees and fancy feet. He is flinging something out of his pockets into the river. “Plenty for everyone,” he sings. “Plenty, plenty.” He is attracting fish. He is attracting a crowd on the far shore. Curious, the people begin to climb into their boats to make their way over. “Get ready,” he sings. “The people are coming.”
I falter at the size of the crowd. I am afraid they will break over me like a wave.
“Make the garden ready to receive them,” the Ferryman urges, flicking his fingers at me.
The garden is the thing, with its paths and turnings and walls of green. The garden will channel the torrent into intimacy.