My Poetry: The Old Fisherman

The Old Fisherman

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*The old fisherman,
hunched, stoic,
sits watching
the ripples dissipate
on a corrugated iron sea.
Mist hugs his gentle frame;
He waits.
The clocks have stopped,
his copper face and knotted brow,
lined with years
of drink and heartache,
smooth out.
He cares not for sun-rays,
or pointless words
from human mouths.
He has no need for smiles
that sink his heart
and sea-sicks his head,
out here.
The rattle of pebbles
- shore clashing with sea -
the cry of gulls
is all he needs.
He waits,
like a snarled old Buddha
watching the sea and sky unite,
his un-baited line
trying to hook the horizon.
Out here, alone,
The old fisherman forgets his life.