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
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.