Let fishing villages lie

I came down into the town along wrinkled streets, 

past slumped houses. Outside old men, 

salt-blue hats stealing past crisp, white hairs,

sat on stools, whittled driftwood into memory.

The deserted dockyards dominated the heavy coastline, 

ribbed bones. Once Schooners and Brigantines

were the mainstay of the village until the evening 

when fishermen dragged themselves up to the shore.

Silence casts about the town now, dust settles 

old scores, the world turns a straight back 

to a finished existence. Fish swim in distant waters 

as ripples bring sadness into tarred hearts.

I came down into the town in search 

of an easy boat to brave the sea – possessed 

by a dream that my father the wood carver 

was trapped inside the sea’s moaning darkness.

I sought the prodigal path across waves 

and storms to bring my father, the candle, home – 

I was haunted by a mad belief  that skin 

and bone would not serve as well as wood.

I was already a cast out boy and wanted 

at this late date to be a tree again. A tree

can  sail oceans; each leaf can hear prayers 

whispered in darkness. I was made flesh.