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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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