Boot Leggings

At the wharf I donned the Wellington boots Of the fisher deceased, to trace my roots And see and feel what it was like at sea For my uncle a fishing devotee. The clammy boots were three sizes too large. I kidded myself that I could take charge, And fill the boots with fishers' gait and guts Aware the concept was deluded, nuts. I felt the lure of expectation loom As the trawler 'Gen' breached to break dawn's gloom I embraced the hope of a bumper haul Of keeper fish, not tiddlers, way too small. I felt the surge of waves tug at the boots, Like tentacles dragging against the roots Which held my soles fast on the slimy deck. The sea incessant for another wreck. I felt fish guts, innards, blood and gore, Slather on boots as fish were brought ashore, And unloaded in bins brimful with ice. At days end, bootlegging was hard but nice.