Up from a thatched cottage, the sun
Purples the horizon.
Halfway down to a sea, dressed in gray,
Casting nets drying, yearning
For a fish —
Today may there be a harvest coffined
In silvery jackets.
As I wade into the sea-mouth,
The salt air
Thin and sluggish trickles down my face;
Waves eyeing me
Move obliquely with a wet.
My fingers work the baited nets,
As I could, between
The glittery wisps of wind, cast them over
A dawning tide.
Bellies of schooling fish struggle, puzzled
By their passage to a demise.
Fattened a pot, a smokehouse; I, a net-mender,
Sit by a cottage
White as sea-salt — is there anyone who dies,
Or is born without
Their knowing it? Inched from our mother’s womb,
Swollen to a life,
Then wear the death mask once your tasks are complete.
I can still smell the salt air, feel the waves pulsing
See the blunt, sleek coastline hills — rivers
Feeding the sea,
The clumping of tidal pools where mussels beach;
Hear waves lapping
On a shore; all while mending my nets and sipping
Life before the water.
Copyright © 02/06/18 lance sheridan®