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.