Like a misty, ocean morning,
pale enough to be grey,
cobalt towards the western cliffs.
A fisherman sets out in the early chill
with a fire lit lamp.
It's glow shocking life into
the sleepy wharf,
Creatures begin to stir amongst
the garbage, squaking,
smells of fish permeates
Gulls screech above the old sailor,
and his head hangs low in response.
The open sea is his calling,
the salty blood of the ancient people,
The Fish, his life,
a neverending cycle of rebirth/
And the sea will not let him
She holds his soul in her sandy palms,
and forever more will he be her slave.