The house at Port Clyde stands still,

resting just inland of the east coast sea.

It holds broken windows and scattered shingles.

Rope crawled among the yard with secrets entangled in them.

A fisherman waited there, day after day.  

Waiting for his boy who had not come home.

A fisherman waiting with fading hope for his son.

Stories of the boy’s death spread like wildfire,

seeping into the home of the fisherman.

Stories of a foggy night and a drunken rum runner.

Stories of a belated son laying on Marshall Point road 

A fisherman waited for his son who wouldn’t return home.

A fisherman who had been driven mad.

A fisherman with an abundance of rope, calling to him.

A fisherman who led himself to his departure.

The house at Port Clyde stands still,

haunted by a fisherman’s ghost. 

The winds are his voice, luring his son home. 

Waiting for the reunion of father and son.