14 January 2024

By Philip Kuepper

Rowers’ reflections
float upside down, heads scraping
the sky’s blue ceiling.

Oaring through a dream
of rowing, the rower found
streams of consciousness.

In the calm evening,
there was nothing if not peace,
through which rowers swept.

Riddled bright, the waves;
the rowers rowing through them
become the brightness.

Once the sun had tongued
away the frost, the day warmed;
the rowers’ oars sang.

Mallards meander,
uncertain, near the boatshed;
the rowers within.

In the quiet dawn,
the clatter of rowers moved
forward the morning.

(2 January 2024)