The Fisherman

A Cape Islander rests like a postcard photograph
In Rose Bay.
My stone skips across its shadow, cast clumsily about the
Gentle rippling water.
A perfect forest of pine trees form a line at the edge of the beach.
Charcoal Blue Rocks jet out from the
Lightly pebbled sand.
A wooden smoke house that has seen
It's share of Nova Scotia winters
Lies just above the high tide mark.

A man awakens to the peaceful hour of 3:oo am.
He fixes himself a cup of coffee,
Black.
Fetching the soiled orange rubber gloves from the
Closet
He swollows the last drop of
Coffee
And heads for the warf.

Waving to Frank in his
Dory
The man briefly tosses the gloves to the ground
Unties the thick tattered
Ropes,
And sets of into the harbor.