Foxton river

Got up at six to go to Foxton

Where we smelled a dead cow and blistered our hands.

The double’s sun-strike, ice-cap, coral-blue beckoned

Foxton's mud-brown current threatened.

It was going to be a first time sculling together. The question was:

Were we going to tip?

30 minutes in, all an eavesdropper would hear was:

Hand heights... hand heights...

HAND HEIGHTS!

Stroke... stroke... stroke!

Bow, bow, bow...

More on bow! More on bow! MORE ON BOW!

HAND HEIGHTS!!!

***

Our cars were shiny jelly beans on the drive home

Slowly, slowly... returning home.

Soon, Paekākāriki Hill Road beckoned

And we chatted the Māori land wars.

***

Final shards of heat blew through as I entered my room

I threw myself onto home-base and went to sleep.

Early editing credits to Rafi. Shoutout to Iain and Daniel.