Member Poem

On the river before evening clouds finally set
a yellow light and then a golden
falls on the water and then a red;
at that hour, carrying boat stools
and paddles the rowers go in to wade
carrying sculls with them and sometimes
entire crews carry one hull
and they take boots off once they are inside her,
they settle their feet on the trestle
and put on shoes; settle to row before last light
turns all their bodies to blue and the water cold;
finally somebody says "Let's,"
"We're wasting light," somebody calls and they leave the dock
half a score arms pulling one way
against the river, sometimes as they return they have the tide;
and golden they coast the water with light,
they turn to a body of ochre between the tide and sky,
they turn to a torrent over the water
part blood, part boat metal, part pure gold
and pulling they come back as night falls all purple
all black as the moon comes out,
sometimes stars twinkle in their water like dropped ash
but some moments just before dark they were pure light and sweat;
and pulling the boat into harbour
they shake off the last heat of gold
and walk onto night's earth
for all that false light can give
and hands can steal from death.