At that moment, all
turned gold,
the cobalt blue river
where he rowed,
his oars, his shell
gone golden by the light,
his body set aglow
at the moment the sun rose.

The gold caught hold
the river’s banks,
waking the faces of the buildings,
and gilding the midnight
green trees, embracing,
one by one, each leaf,
awing the mauve sky,
the morning, brilliant-brought.

Philip Kuepper
25 August 2014