Guide The Fisherman

Here is a poem I envisioned about the strain of a wife waiting for her fisherman to return to her.


Guard my man that treads the skirts of the ocean miles,

For many empty days have I spent without my husband’s smile,

And waiting ’til the pang of partings has ceased.

May the moon bathe him with my love,

Drowning the burn in my heart,

And guide him through the furrow of the seas.

May he not be broken or lame,

Nor lose all his money playing games,

Or step on other’s toes,

When times are often slow.

Keep his will sturdy and brave,

And not lead him to his watery grave,

Or allow him to sit around and mope,

But make his arms strong

To reel in a full catch of fat fish,

And give him a reason to hope.

My eyes gazed out upon the heavenly view

And I dared not utter a clue,

In case my eyes had deceived me.

Across the velvet waters the schooner came about,

And my heart began to flutter,

My worries had been set free.

I wiped my tears on the corner of my ragged apron

And raced across the dock in anticipation.

The fisher-wives and I waved our aprons over our head,

Signaling to our men that we missed them from our bed.

As the schooner steered close to the dock,

The weathered men smiled and waved at our flock.

I shoved through the wives to get a good look at my man,

But my eyes didn’t see my sweet love,

And I began to fret and shout to the sky with my wounded pride,

All for the loss of my fisherman.

I wondered how I would ever pay the rent

And I began all overĀ  to wither and fret.

Then a shock of red hair flared in my eyes

AndĀ  his face smirked at my disgrace.

Bill winked and I ran into his arms, smelling of fish,

And I dried my weepy eyes,

Thanking God for granting my wish.IMG_0723

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