Calloused hand, tangled net
The Fisherman casts his net
across the shoals
with succinct intent
and a stomach full of bile
The currents push along the reeds
until the inlet opens up
Its bounty,
a handful of silt and conch shells
Somewhere out at Sea
He met a man
who has forgotten his name
and smells of Thunder
hand outstretched,
He asked for the albatross
around the Fisherman’s neck
“The pressure at the ocean floor
belongs not to you or any one person”
He imparted.
“Follow the bubbles to the surface
They know which way is up.”
Thunder rolls not too far off,
the storms’ eye blinking to life
The Fisherman wipes his brow,
net in calloused hand
there is still work to be done.
About the Creator
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