29 November 2017

Rough was the rugged
precipice of rock
that gave no quarter for anchor.
Sheer it rose,
sheer fell,
out of an into
the deep harbor.
We thought naming it
would make it
more amenable.
It did not.
Touch it?
It gave back only hardness.
The water lay flat,
shiny as linoleum,
a quite walkable water to the eye.
Our skulls hesitated as to what
direction to take.
How tiny we felt
at the base of so sheer a rock.
Slick rock, and water waxed slick,
how to get a grip?
Our minds drifted with our sculls,
until a small, indifferent
shrug of a wave
edged us left,
where, in shadow, stretched
a shingle of shore
receptive to anchor.

Philip Kuepper
(5 November 2017)