It's nice to be eaten by a ferryboat. It opens its mouth and I slide Smooth as ice cream down its throat, Snug and warm inside. Raining, snowing, freezing, blowing-- I'm always safe, because When I don't know just where I'm going, I know the ferryboat does.
Imagine being so comfortable that you'd happily be swallowed whole. That's the cozy, slightly cheeky idea at the heart of Mary Carolyn Davies's "The Ferryboat." The speaker pictures the boat as a creature with an open mouth, and boarding it feels like sliding "smooth as ice cream" down its throat. Instead of being frightening, being eaten turns out to be snug and warm, a treat rather than a threat.
The second half widens the feeling. Weather can rage, with rain, snow, freezing, and blowing wind, yet the speaker stays calm. The reason is a simple kind of trust: even when the speaker has no idea where life is heading, the ferryboat does. The short, rocking lines and the rhymes (*because* and *does*) give the poem a gentle, childlike rhythm. The mood is contented and reassuring, a small celebration of handing over control to something dependable.