27 April 2025

By Philip Kuepper

There blew the soft, brief
wind when
earth passes the sun,
and night becomes
day. Flame, then,
ignited the horizon, took hold,
and burned blue across the sea,
until it broke against the shore.
Blue, broken, lay along the sand,
staining the sand dark,
then ran back into the flaming
sea. Gulls flew up,
as though tossed into the air,
like pieces of torn white parchment.
They flew alarmed at the blue
lying broken along the shore.
Beach grass laughed at their alarm,
soothed by the blue presence,
however burning the sea.
Day bled fully into night
making clear canvas of the sky,
as the sea lay
tossing, turning
in its bed, before waking.
These were waters to be rowed
only once they had settled,
only once the blue flame had calmed.
Which it would, and which the rowers would
row. But not now,
not until the blue flamed sea,
the torn parchment of gulls, the laughing
grass had been spent,
and the parchment of gulls had settled,
like an unrolled scroll,
alarmed no longer, on the water,
turning sober the no longer laughing grass.
Then, only then, would the rowers
put their shells to water,
and stroke, stroke, stroke the luminescent calm.

(22-23 February 2025)