30 November 2025

By Philip Kuepper

The evening sky hung, a crucible,
as though the last of the day
had been poured into a bowl
and set afire. Clouds melted
in the heat of perceived flames
stirred by the wind. All was in
absolute combustion, a combustion
of coral, mauve, crimson, orange.
Then the fire died out.
Darkness. Not a spark,
all this, just as the rowers had been about
to lift their shell from the river,
and carry it to the shelter of the boathouse,
the crucible sky prophesying
the morrow would prove a fine
morning for rowing.
To row mornings wakened them
to their lives being lived.

(22 November 2025)