The Rowing Man
He had been rowing for as long as he could remember.
The river flowed with him,
Steady to his left, steady to his right.
The banks remained
Just out of reach; he never
Strayed from the mid of the stream.
On each regular stroke
The blades of his oars
Nipped through the bright
Followed by their body of wood.
With sufficient power he heaved,
Tucking his hands to hips
And extending his legs, sending
His small craft forward, following
Its nose downstream. The sun
Overhead illumined his route,
The curve of the river and the attendant
Creatures, which grew further away
With each fresh pull, the sides of the stream,
The slow waving reeds and the oarsman’s
Own fingers encircling their oars.
Imbued with the power
Of his shoulder, the oars
Carried him backwards and on
Towards an intended mooring
But his eyes remained held,
By the past still receding,
As they tried to recapture the source.
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