Hiraeth

The fisherman's shoes have worn thin, you can see where he's been by the shoreline traces of blood in the footprints on the sand, as time, as time does, blindly flies and races. And, in ending up, all there is left to see are bits and pieces of the total recall, of the caring soul, of the wide bright smile of forgiveness, of laughter and the pain of it all. It all catches like fishooks in the throat or burns like sulphur sprinkles in the eyes, the missing of this and that and everything in the death throe severing of binding ties. Somewhere a fly was cast, snagging ectoplasm, reeling a spirit from the shell of wrecked steel, playing the catch into Heaven's remand: I just want you to know how I feel.