The Fisherman

Slow morning. Fish were taking their sweet time.
Sunrise surprised me, as it often can,
                         With impish motey streaks.
Bethsaida blurred, receding, home of tomb
And temple. Air was energetic, clean.
                                       With choppy strokes
                                       Past heron, swallows,
                         Softly we skiffed across
                         Each undulating crease.
A greener depth replaced the glistening shallows.

Peter was leaning out to cast his net
While I, daydreaming, watched saltwater’s ruptured
                         Mirror. Remembrances
Spiralled. Mosaic of fractals. Passion’s knot
Revolving. Tell me, have you been enraptured
                                       By moments, mess,
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