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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3523 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Sea Mornings Marty Abuloc Morning, the silence is broken by stray crickets and a late star flickers in its solitude, sand grass sprouts here and there, grey dunes undulate, as if it were the wave, and the sea is almost an even earth. The palm trees are mere shadows against the dark and quiet mountain where nothing moves for a moment, until a man, with fishnets heavy upon his back, surveys the horizon, the still hour, the quiet wind, and between scattered pools left by the night tide, waits. Dreams do not come as they once had here where the dull and shapeless time pass quietly, there are broken fences, the rusted nails barely keeping each wooden piece together, a sign hangs inverted held by a shred of rope, announced summers long ago there was a cottage for rent, free linen change every morning, and free fishing trips to friars’s rock. Everything is old, the paint that cracks on the porch of every house, the roofs that weathered twenty eight annual storms, the songs of the sea are old, the mountains and the sand are ancient, the hands that held the fishnets and paddled the boats to sea are wrinkled. even the silence and the lack of wind is an old tale to ears that have traded youth to the catch brought by everday’s piecemeal life. mornings do not bring the colors of dawn, only the grey drab of a grey sea, the grey sand, under a grey sky, the grey tattered banner lifeless in the windless shore, but the old man waits, looks upon the open sea and wonders how the days have been spanned by the latitudes and longitudes of nets crisscrossing a shallow curious morning. |
