The weathervane bares to the moon
its raven wings, in predicted circles it
swings. Fishing boats rise and fall
behind the jetty wall, the old man
mending his netting can hear the sea
Ghostly snowflakes cover the seaweed
floating among the rocks, the fisherman’s
mind rushes like the tick of a clock. Time
for one more catch before winter freezes
the shore; the nets have taken too long,
an overwhelming chore.
He sits remembering his world, its ghosts
that the ocean has taken, the young men
that God had forsaken. In the beginning
the ancient winds brought the fish to earth,
they filled the sea to give birth.
Our ancestor’s footsteps imprinted upon the
pier, late in the night their sorrowful cries we
can hear. Hurry, hurry the time is growing near,
soon your boats will freeze in their moorings,
the winter winds are what you should fear.
Look upward at the weathervane and its circular
world, around and around it whirls. The daybreak
will quickly be gone and you will ask God…where
did I go wrong. Ghostly snowflakes cover the
seaweed floating among the rocks, the fisherman
mind rushes like the tick of a clock.
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