Untitled

He sat, stone cold
And never spoke,
Though his eyes told the tale,
Of a fishing boat,

His home,
Every buoy known,
Before spelling or math,

His hands were rough,
From the crab rope paths,
But he never shed a tear,
A very strong lad,

Every storm,
Every gale,
Never to pale,
By the white capped harbours,
During every sail,

He could speak a story,
And never repeat,
The kids,
They gathered at his feet,
Hoping one day to be so wise,
A family,
A home,
Never denied,

A place so perfect,
A community that loved,
A fisherman's dream,

Fear overcome,
Together they work,
Every day,
Every night

A fisherman's journey,
A fisherman's life,
Sweet Nova Scotia,
Born to the sea,
Born to fish,
Born to believe,
"You'll do well," he spoke,

A twinkle in his eye,
A sign of hope,
A legacy of pride.





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harbourview said...
Jun. 6, 2012 at 8:29 pm
Your fishing family will love this poem.
 
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