The Rowing Boy

Long, low, black slabs of cloud
Skim in from where winter hides
In it's Northern lair.
Although sitting in this Southern suburb,
I am pulled across time,
And the salted grass that
Dresses Scotland's Western shores,
I am again rowing a small boat
In the arms of wooden piers;
Rowing under like the pier-shooting boy
In long school socks
Through long school-less days.

But, for water on water
This is the likliest of places,
And, the rain folds in
Through gaps in the out-riding hills,
Sending trippers scuttling to Woolworths, Or coffee in cafes.

The clouds continue to skim
Until they skim beyond my imagination.
I try to hold to my journey,
But the rowing boy lies at anchor,
Looking out at the rain streaming
At the edge of the weather.

by Robert Wylie

Comments (1)

Took me back to Bangor in N. Ireland were we would hire out Laird's boats as boys and row them through the pier struts, much to the annoyance of the people fishing above. Thank you. Colin J...