13 December 20126
The boat, almost,
did not make it
to shore, the bow,
nosed in mud,
the stern, half-sunk,
the scraping I’d heard,
and felt, a miniature
iceberg of a rock taking a bite
out of my Titanic.
However well I rowed,
what lay hidden,
lurking,
would have its way.
I assessed the damage,
repaired, as best I could,
the point of impact,
the scar left, a reminder,
I can’t ever be too cautious.
Philip Kuepper
(27 September 2016)
Tagged: Philip Kuepper, Rowing Poetry
