Ghost Rowers in the Sky; or, A Winter's Tale

A poem about winter rowing, by Steve Gurney.

(Photos by Dianne Kelly)

Sherpas Paul and Wade, boating-up

It seems like many years have passed
Since summer breezes blew.
When thrushes nested in the grass
And purple flowers grew.

O then the days were warm and long,
The waters smooth and calm.
We launched our boats in peace and sun
And rowing was like balm.

Yet comes a time most every year
When winds begin to howl.
‘Tis time to bolt the boathouse doors
While winter’s on the prowl.

There then arose a stalwart band
One day came down to row.
There was no water then in sight
But only ice and snow.

Four souls it was, you may recall,
Their faces gnarled and grim.
They came to best the Great White Cold,
As even light grew dim.

These men, the best in all the Land,
Their bodies lean and spare.
Testosterone coursed through their veins
Despite their thinning hair.

These worthies launched in winter’s dread,
When all about was snow.
How carefree did they shout apace,
“A-rowing we will go."

Oars down -- winter sunrise on the Housatonic

Good Paul appeared upon the dock
And shrieked, “But we have rules!”
They answered back, “Such not for us;
They’re only made for fools.”

“Avast, me lads,” Paul did beseech.
“The rule says stay ashore.
Ye may not row when winter stalks
Lest ye be seen no more.”

“The rules to us do not apply.
We’re men of steel,” quoth they.
“We care not how the tempest screams,
Let’s go boys, all a-weigh.”

The storm, it blew a banshee wail,
The wolf left not her den.
Their answer to the howling gale:
“We are not boys, but men.”

They stroked into the screaming storm,
The tempest's raging roar
Then swallowed by its hungry maw,
Alas were seen no more.

And so they vanished in the murk
And night replaced the day.
Some say their ghostly scull still glides
In some place far away.

The Horses of Helios: Paul, Wade, and John P.

If they returned, we know not how.
No witness saw them land.
Their blood turned cold, their lips are sealed,
On them, The Great White Hand.

Now come the spring, in early morn
The mists not long to clear,
A glimpse, a ghastly quad-with-four,
Their faces mad with fear.

The moral of this fearsome tale
When winter stalks the gate:
“Abandon Hope, ye rowers all
For winter seals thy fate.”

Come summer - and the roses bloom
And daisies flood the dell.
There will be wiser ones who say,
“Alas, we knew them well.”