Like a misty, ocean morning,

smokey blue

pale enough to be grey,

cobalt towards the western cliffs.

 

A fisherman sets out in the early chill

with a fire lit lamp.

It's glow shocking life into 

the sleepy wharf,

Creatures begin to stir amongst

the garbage, squaking,

smells of fish permeates 

the air.

Gulls screech above the old sailor,

and his head hangs low in response.

 

The open sea is his calling,

the salty blood of the ancient people,

his own.

The Fish, his life,

a neverending cycle of rebirth/

And the sea will not let him

forget it.

 

She holds his soul in her sandy palms,

and forever more will he be her slave.