On the river before evening clouds finally set a yellow light and then a golden falls on the water and then a red; at that hour, carrying boat stools and paddles the rowers go in to wade carrying sculls with them and sometimes entire crews carry one hull and they take boots off once they are inside her, they settle their feet on the trestle and put on shoes; settle to row before last light turns all their bodies to blue and the water cold; finally somebody says "Let's," "We're wasting light," somebody calls and they leave the dock half a score arms pulling one way against the river, sometimes as they return they have the tide; and golden they coast the water with light, they turn to a body of ochre between the tide and sky, they turn to a torrent over the water part blood, part boat metal, part pure gold and pulling they come back as night falls all purple all black as the moon comes out, sometimes stars twinkle in their water like dropped ash but some moments just before dark they were pure light and sweat; and pulling the boat into harbour they shake off the last heat of gold and walk onto night's earth for all that false light can give and hands can steal from death.