The old man’s days were indistinct
From one another
All consisting of the same work and toiling
Merciless on the hands
Callous, an armor
Against splintering wood
Thick, rough rope
And tender, raw skin

The aromas
Of the untamed sea
And all which it entailed
Remained with him eternally
Whether in his dilapidated shack
Or hours from the port
Where his boat impatiently waited
Sails fluttering in the salty breeze
The man could still detect
The separate scents of seaweed, salt, and fish
Suspended in midair
Or gaze at his rough and battered hands
As he reminisced about
Fishing days
Long nights looking longingly
At the brilliant stars
Which clashed with the deep
Charcoal sky
And the whole universe of sea
Nothing else
Solitude
Just the fisherman and
The sea