Row River

The gray silk scarf of the Liffey lay
Wrinkled at the bow
Of his shell as the rower
Stroked slowly the river,
Source of frothy lager
Flowing beneath Ha’penny Bridge.

As the blades of his oars
Tore the silk of the river,
The rower imagined Bloom standing
In line at the post office
Waiting to mail his two cents worth
Of uprising.

The morning hung still. Dublin slept.
Up at Sligo, Yeats turned in his grave
At the sound of horses’ hooves passing by.
So the rower imagined
As the blades of his oars
Clip-clopped, clip-clopped the Liffey.

His hard as steel body
Described a motion
Of rhythmic perfection, the morning
Sky deepening with light,
Turning the gray silk Liffey white.
The rower rowed to the harp of his heart.

Philip Kuepper
(April, 2012)