Seven old fishermen
Sit on the sea wall in the sun.
A storm, a week away,
Frets their blood.
They smoke pipes. They reckon
A few baskets of cod between now
And the purple chasms westward.
I sit in my rocker
Watching 'the fronts' on a glimmering screen.
That poem is tremendous. So much said in a tight economy of words. Thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteBy chance do you know who the sailor is in the photo above??? Im trying to get in touch with either him or a decendent of his.. :)
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