28 January 2018

Like spearsmen,
from an African tribe,
the rowers stood,
oars upright,
just before the hunt
for the beast of the river
began.  Launched,
they bore down on the snarling
frothing beast.  Into its back
they drove their oars,
that, wounded, roared them
forward, the beast’s back
abristle with waves,
its snout afoam, foam
dripping down its tusks.  Again,
the rowers drove their oars
into the bristling back.  The beast
slowed.  The rowers
had brought it to heel.
They feasted on the meat of victory.

Philip Kuepper
(8 January 2018)