The morning they go rowing

The morning they go rowing, swans bring them no closer
to perfection. Nor do reeds bow against the stream.
They argue which stroke will turn their boat, which method
reverse this drifting into another possibility of capsizing
as storm clouds break over the site of their new home.
Why have they come to the middle of the lake?
May be the swans brought them here,
or the reeds nodded them in?
Last summer he decided to sell the house without
leaving room for her opinion. "Why", she asked, thinking
where her whole life had been.
"We have to," he said. "We have to move on,"
like the sound the oars will make dipping in and out of the water
to reach firm ground.
Their lovely daughters on the edge, among the camellia trees
and the rhododendrons, unsure of their gestures,
waving them on.