The rower sat still
in his scull sitting still
on the still river.
He had rowed to where he had
determined to row.
The sun was not yet eight.
No cloud scuffed the polished sky,
which the rower gazed on in the river
where the sun blossomed,
a giant white peony out of season,
autumn, crimson
leaves floating
on the water like dops
of blood shed from
a celestrial heart, invisible,
to the human eye,
though not to the eye
of the soul that saw
what the rower could only sense.
Though what may have been evidence
was the ripple, just perceptible
(caused by a single drop of blood)?
He saw just before it touched
and rocked his scull.
Philip Kuepper
(14 October 2013)
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