16 March 2025

By Philip Kuepper

The sudden clatter
of oars turned heads.
The rack that held them
had collapsed,
oars, heavy with the history
of the waters they had rowed,
oars, heavy with the imprints
of the hands of their rowers.
Heavy is memory,
heavy with memories,
with acts, committed, in time.
They were oars that knew
practice rows,
rows, contested,
rows, for pleasure only.
The heats of the rows was on the oars,
varnishing them to a shine.
And as they collapsed, clattering,
they glittered in the young light,
like, like a recruit,
eager to put right,
what accident had brought,
unanticipated, on the scene.

(3 March 2025)