PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

That afternoon, they served us all the fish

that we could possibly desire or eat;

grilled over coals in smoulder, for low heat

to cook in what preparers called "slow bake,"

with seasonings like Grandma used to make.

Others might envy, criticize, or wish

to imitate our town's signature dish.

Its main secret is that our local lake

provides those swimmers with the finest taste

as long as they are not prepared with haste.

Lately, the hauls have been a little low---

a poor season we will not soon forget:

earnings so small you could not buy a goat,

even if one was needed.  But, at dawn,

today---when we were worn out, all hope gone,

a man asked for a ride on Simon's boat,

then told him where he ought to toss the net

(what disbelieving this suggestion met,

and even ridicul, I am afraid).

But then, the slack ropes jerked tautly, a pull

that felt, to us, like an enormous weight.

We struggled (it was like lifting huge freight);

but when that net came up, it was so full

we thought the very mesh itself would break.

But other fishermen hurried to aid

us when we called out to them, anxious lest

we lose the catch.  But think---who would have guessed

that man's, that carpenter's, offered advice

would be so accurate and so precise?

Starward

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