The old fisherman sits on a discarded salt box
on a pier at the end of the world he knew
He sit's there lost in the fog of time
an image of dignity through and through
His weathered old pipe, his patched coveralls
his frayed and faded red shirt
seem quaint for the tourist soul stealers
They take pictures of such a good sport
laugh lines surrounding his weary eyes
skin salt-weathered as the boots on his feet
He whittles with his knive for the wee ones
dolphins and whales he gives kids he meets
but he watches the ship traffic with one eye
dreams of days of his glorius past
when he sailed a three master on the Grande Banks
wonders all new why those days couldn't last
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Love Tinka
Take care,
Sherry
"If I have to be this girl in me, Then I have the right to be."
Regis
Insightful the way you explained it and how. Good work.
Elizabeth