6 August 2023

By Philip Kuepper

Who’s dory is it
that rocks at the edge of the sea,
half on the sea, half on the beach?
I did not see anyone go out
this morning, or anyone return.
It has been a fine day for fishing,
though somewhat on the rough side.
Yet a dory is a sturdy boat,
for such a sea, an deep enough
to hold catch enough,
to feed whatever appetite awaits it.
The oars lie athwart it,
like a pair of crossed arms,
as though having either
decided, or thinking what to decide,
that use of the dory is done for the day,
or there is to be one more rowing out?
It is, after all, growing late.
Oh, the sea is still steely blue,
and the sun not yet coppery.
Still, it does grow late.
(I’ve never known it to grow early.)
Who’s dory is it? I do not know.
Perhaps no one’s? Perhaps
it rowed partway ashore on its own,
waiting for one I am yet to know.

(19 June 2023)