The Ticking Clock…

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

call.

 

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.

 

 

****

 

2013.annjohnsonmurphree

 

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