Peter's Craft

To go back to that blind water,
exasperation's mirror, sounded
easy enough; verdict of experience
cancelled by words of release.

To push out our fruitless vessel
from which his words went to shore
like gulls from a far wind,
the monstrous pull that conquered

boats, nets, arms and backs
strained by the flickering womb of the catch
was having our stories' margins breached
with a heft that hauls have never been like -

our trade's sails snapped and licked
by sign and gift, inundated shells -
since then, when stepping in the prow to fish
what once was trade and occupation

is rested in lake lapping,
boating to the fish source;
we're mastered in our abandon, higher duress:
when we go to net fish it is simply vacation.