Some crisp silent ginger snap in-the-nose October morning... early;
so early that scent is sight, your cup your light -- hot cider sweet
with cinnamon spice -- before the sun god's steeds awake
to rear, kick and lick at the edges of the midnight,
well before the whole autumn jack-o-lantern world alights ­
children's cheeks sugar maples apples pumpkins red orange and bright --

come, come softly, father, friend, to the river again and sit, knees
bent, your broad back pressed easy against a hardwood tree,
and listen to the whisper of the day's first breeze, to the thin
whistle in the Mallard's wing, to the water wizard's wave of wand
above a rising stream, and to the rhythm in rowing boats...
to the simple song of sculls and sweeps.

Come at the turning hour, your smoky breath held tight
and tilt back your head, straight back to see the seam in the stars,
the big zipper between dawn and night; smell the earth
and the weed and the fish in the flats, feel the moon's pull
in the salt-strong tide running up the bank, along the dock...
behind your buckled belt, down your spine.

Cast then your eye downstream and east with the great heron's
slow fanning flight, past sassy spartina, past saffron haze
curling, cobras from baskets, above the mirrored face
of our little serpentine creek and grasses, to the Great Bay,
to the open water, and now ­ just now ­ to the big sky,
a fresh canvas marbled with the new wide-opening day.

And smile to know that I loved this so, this great shell game,
this gift you gave, this ebb and flow in helping ships and friendships
row. And, in a world inverted, share now in my discovery of a second
family and second home: this uncommon congregation and, above
below, this strong sleek and sure-ribbed hull... my meeting house,
my temple, my high-vaulted Renaissance cathedral dome.


marshall c. moore - exeter, new hampshire
copyright 2003 11-7-03

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Marshall Moore has been been rowing and coaching since 1970. He writes of Morning Prayer:

I wrote this for a young friend -- an oarsman and poet himself -- who died due to an undetected heart defect while warming up for practice. It is his voice you hear in the poem, writing from "the other side" to thank his father for having given him the gift of rowing and the rowing world. It is the "prayer" of the young man that his father, who was never an oarsman himself, now go enjoy or "share" the gift.