The Fishermen
black may turn to gray but gray
may not turn to yellow,
night may turn to day, but
still these clouds hang around.
saltine driftwood and enameled seashells
fracture against the course palm.
all those biblical sea foam literate sons wandering
throgh the fog.
the unreverenced staggering pulpit's
half diligent, half hungover.
early in the morning they return to
the docks the prodigal sons of galilee.
to curse at their sober seagull halos,
maybe find a wooden plank for
a familiar face.
they are fishermen and they have
never been so holy.
beautiful as halogen lamps in the
corners of dark still rooms.
wearing their bright yellow rain coats,
they bristle gather a nets worth of
stories to tale later at the pub.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2010
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