paulhp poetry

his boat lulls
as the hooks wind in
hung with iridescent
ocean blades
little line dancers
of flailing breath
that twitch and slither
into the trough

a century of seasons
are stowed behind
his watery eyes
though he does not weep
for the sleek and flesh
he has no time
or gaps to fill
his leathered hands
a constant husband
to the sea

and here he will be
until the fish run dry
until his wispy smile
no longer persuades
the belly of cloud
to let the sun through