Your gaze patrols the water and your pull
is long. Night's rains have made the river full.
Now that the surface-ruffling wind has died,
you see the hawthorn flow, the alders glide.
Beside the boat, your blade cuts through the sky,
uncovering the stars the clouds imply.
If you have any comments on this poem, Stephen Payne would be pleased to hear from you.