David Pring-Mill
Gone Fishing
His hands, once mighty and unyielding as the ancient oaks, now tremble like lost driftwood. His wrists have undergone a mutiny, betrayed by the creeping rust of arthritis, the knots of life’s labor, etched deep in the map of his skin. He stands—a ghost amidst the gulls’ cries, a sentinel to the dance of masts and hulls that sway with the ocean’s moody tune. His gaze, a lighthouse beam, fixes upon the vessels that cut through the waves, their sails full of the wind’s restless energy, his eyes steeped in the brine of a thousand voyages. He watches as the sea he once called home carries on without him. The boats bob and weave, the choppy dance of light on the crests of the waves taunts him, a flickering reminder of days gone by. The spray and the shout and the laughter of young sailors rings bittersweet. Yet, in his heart, where storms of regret rage against the shore of memory, he sails on, chasing the silver flash of fish below, the unfurling wings of the net, the thrill of the catch. |
David Pring-Mill’s poetry has appeared in Ariel Chart, Poetry Quarterly, Boston Literary Magazine, East Coast Literary Review, FIVE:2:ONE, and many other literary magazines. He has worked extensively as a journalist. You can visit his website at www.pring-mill.com.