Here’s Dad …

THE FISHERMAN

is walking to the sea
at dawn in the purple
of a storm that passed on.
He turns to move on rocks
down to the water
at the base of the pier.

Seals sleep like dogs
in the wet sand, dreaming of men.
But a man will sleep in a moment
dreaming of waves that rise up
like lions digging graves
for the dead.

In the shadow of these cliffs
the day stays dark and cold
with a westerly breeze
on the back of his neck
and his net too small for stars.

So I am sleeping peacefully
dreaming of mountains and snow
while he fights his line
for the rise and fall
of silent seas and angry boats.

His life is a small fire
built to cook fish.

© a long time ago
by Kyle Kimberlin