The evening bay shone chalice silver.
North wind waved a sea across the meadow,
along Rope Walk Road and the swinging gate.
Four oarsmen and their stern navigator
were almost rubbed smooth by tourists, weather,
the itchy sheep. I could just make them out,
their scythe of a boat vertical, its prow
facing heaven and the rain. What I have now
is this palm-sized replica where stout
sailors are straining, their faces eager.
Someone's brain-child, this new use for peat
from the duty-free makes a cheap souvenir,
green as a tortoise box washed in shadows.
It's always cool as moss in that sun shower
I wish to remember, the fleecy meadow,
my need to see the remnant
plinth,
mythic
enterprise, pilgrimage of sheer spirit.
The relic of brothers rowing a dreamboat
now harbors on the brim of my kitchen sink,
where it should be kept, before the window,
trim and ready, exposed to moonlight,
forever handy, and close to moving water.
