23 June 2018
On the milk-glass river
rosettes of boats sit cut,
just as first light begins to break
through what is left of night.
The river begins to rock
with the motion of the day.
A gull’s wing proves
the milk-glass is liquid
as he dips and, with one wing,
tears the surface,
causing a ripple work its way
to the receptive shore. A rower
has come with his shell
to the town landing, and, slipping into it,
slips onto the river,
slipping into the conversation
between rower and river.
He rosettes the water
with the stroking of his oars,
I gather an abstract bouquet of
to float in the bowl of my mind.
Philip Kuepper
(3 June 2018)
