Strong suntanned torso, horny hand on haft
of slender slivered stone tipped sharpened shaft,
he scans the sea, port, starboard, fore and aft,
steers bold through currents cold and crystal clear,
peers into swilling waves till shoals appear –
finned phantoms flitting on fine silver sand,
flee fitful, fretful, unforgetful spear –
veers single-handed, shingled strand so near.
Wave, windswept, one fights foaming tidal draught.
Successive seasons pass, this sacred craft
is followed still, upon same fragile craft...
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Comments about this poem (Fisherman by Jonathan ROBIN )
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