" " Words and Images: The fisherman


The fisherman

Wednesday, 22 August 2007

He stands on snaking sands resembling
morphing wisps of smoke, hung in the hue's above
casts his eye eastwards, watches Sun peck
Horizon, then quickly sail away
hot with shame
Clambering onto a hard rack of rock
the day bed for his naked feet. Stars,
mussels, blades and spines cut into
the pillows of his little feet, lulling
them to sleep. Blood gushes forth and billows
into the heaving, sighing, rabid sea
spitting white dribble from her cavernous
throat. She binges on the blood 'till all that's
left is the frothing white and sting of life
But he, the fisherman, thanks the rock
for reminding his spirit that he is
alive - sometimes he drifts from reality,
his soul plunging the unfathomable
depths of the sea's listless belly 
"The pain is good!" he acknowledges,
"It makes my soul sing, singing is living."
Everything living he knows sings, horizon
ocean, birds, trees, friends, his lover at home
their beautiful baby boy, they all sing
Sometimes he too sings, like now, his feet asleep
arm stretched over the spitting sea,
hope hooked and cast into her bowels,
he sings a song to placate the sea,
he sings a song to bring the fish, another
for his little boy cradled in his wife's arms
he sings a song to numb the pain of life,
he sings because that's all he can do
while his hope rises and falls on the breast
of Ocean and his blood spills out over
and clouds His little stars

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