24 April 2025

By Philip Kuepper

It was only when I happened
to look across the river
at the window in the boatshed
that I saw
the streak of lightning
reflected in the glass.
The window faced west
where a storm was building,
cloud piled atop cloud,
billowing, dissolving, billowing,
vericosed with lightning.
And yet east
hung the splendid sun.
The storm at most
was proving a threat,
though making momentous
show of it.
When it dissipated
I could sense
the relief in those asail
on the river aboard their dinghies,
a school of students learning
the ropes.

(26 March 2025)