The Morning Catch

The morning's catch was shucked then stowed.

Woolen clad brutes in rubber boots and slicks,

farmers harvesting the green sea's bounty,

nature's choicest produce, ensnared by trawling nets,

cast leeward against the submerged and craggy shore,

then brought to the end of a wave-wrecked pier.

A brace of weathered rogues, too old to sail,

but still as salty as their former chore and trade,

sitting silent on upturned buckets,

slip stubby blades ever so keenly,

between the crease then twist,

with thick strong hands, cracked and gnarled

with callouses earned from briny toil.

The catch was smaller today, same as years of days before.

"Remember, old friend, I once did find a pearl, a gift to my dear wife…"

"Aye, ye did, but then buried it when she died."