7/28/2019 Let Fishing Villages Lie

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Let fishing villages lie

I came down into the town

along wrinkled streets, past

slumped houses. Outside

old men, salt-blue hats stealingpast crisp, white hairs, sat on stools,

whittled driftwood into memory.

The deserted dockyards dominated

the heavy coastline, ribbed bones.

Once Schooners and Brigantines

were the mainstay of the village

until the evening when fishermen

dragged themselves up to the shore.

Silence casts about the town now,dust settles old scores,

the world turns a straight back

to a finished existence. Fish

swim in distant waters as ripples

bring sadness into tarred hearts.

I came down into the town

in search of an easy boat

to brave the sea possessed

by a dream that my father

the wood carver was trapped

inside the seas moaning darkness.

I sought the prodigal path

across waves and storms

to bring my father, the candle,

home I was haunted by a mad

belief that skin and bone

would not serve as well as wood.

I was already a cast out boyand wanted at this late date

to be a tree again. A tree

can sail oceans; each leaf

can hear prayers whispered

in darkness. I was made flesh.