His skin like parchment
Stretches, stretches, stretches
Over bones hallowed by salt sea
In the dim, red light of morning
And in the pulsing flame of warnings
Issuing from white towers,
Unheard but not unheeded by
Eyes weary but unblinking,
Aware of the fragility of each wave
That rises, then breaks,
Forgotten on cold stone.
His lines fly silently on unrelenting winds,
Angle wordlessly over sparkling gray and green,
Cold depths concealing
A scaly world of slimy life--
The place of origins
That feeds the multitudes
Ever and still,
Still.
He has no need for angling,
Not that kind, anyway.
Angling has taught
What anglers never learn:
Time will take care of most things.
Salt wounds fade, while
Tides rise and recede,
Rise and recede--
And days dawn and die,
Dawn and die.
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