Bora born

Once were rowers _

Morning mist pillows the Burnett River with
a sound proof blanket in a white mirrored kiss.
The dampened silence censures the coxswain's shrill
broken voice calls of, “in out .... in out”; four oars
powered up bite hard on walled water rendered
by the rollicks wooden clacked thud's rhythmic tone.

River bound, he slides inside a dream into
the head of the river college regatta.
So close to the finish line the oar crabs
a heart's sensory bundle beats away, just
a canvas behind as he shoots the slide, arse
on the runners, the oar stiff armed through the air.

Coxswain screams of “More power bow”, did him in
knocked up, the rhythm faltered, he hit the wall.
Pre-race the winners lack of skill seemed so real
they gave up the best racing four, straws drawn, oars
handicapped, sorry one, deception in their
midst, misdirection the winners cruel hard ruse.

“Hey Jude” now silhouettes the back beat in his
mind, reality soon bites, time to wake up.
The pain in the left hip brings him round, body
talk signs off on this daydream on the river
his time machine now silent, the gym secured
by a pass code and camera's patient screening.


- O -

© 1st july 2013 _ Nhawrr yirrpa


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Once were rowers _

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