Sailor’s Rest
I still can’t
understand him, the tired old fisherman
in oilskins; why
his weary oar won’t shatter, how
the weight of the sea draws him to it not it
to him.
These waters have not broken me
or on me--I’ve ridden them well.
We plied the waves and returned
to La Paz in her protected harbor,
exotic palms lining clean streets,
sparkling white hotels for tourists
beneath brilliant sun-dazzled skies,
and a little rowboat painted blue
just beyond the clutch of the tide,
three pelicans eternally on her bow.
This is not the world for me,
I shan’t be worn away by salt water.
But always I’ll remember
that shattered old man in oilskins
knowing his fate was honest--
fishermen and sailors have wrecked
bodies and lost souls on this sea.
It drinks them down like soil
soaking up ancestral bloods;
it might have been ours
but the vastness perseveres,
keeps it alien, keeps it pure.
I’m leaving this wayward life,
believing I’ve seen the beauty
but escaped the taint.
We’ll see.
In his eyes was the sadness
of one who’d been waiting
maybe to warn
maybe in sorrow
maybe kinship
maybe loss.
Still, if he’s right, I’m wrong,
if the sea draws me back again,
and I am to be hers at last
there will be waiting
a blue rowboat in La Paz
already too tired to fade
even in that cruel sun,
three anxious pelicans
laughing on the bow.
Sailor's
Rest 