sweety
12-25-2010, 02:30 PM
It was late afternoon when we saw the old man walk up the path that led to our cottage. The screeching of the herring gulls softening his footsteps. The smell of fresh caught fish wrapped in yesterday's newspaper, held tightly by his side. Avoiding the slippery rocks, still wet from a recent shower, he came closer, smelling of too much aftershave.
He was the same fisherman we watched launching his lobster boat earlier in the day when we walked on the beach.
We saw youngsters discovering the joy of adventure. ''Careful!" you called to them: " the rocks are still wet from high tide.'' Then you kissed me. Your lips tasted sweet, like ripe fruit.
''Your hair feels wiry" you said.
The crisp taste of salt was on the breeze as we walked on the white sand, tinkering with the tiny shells.
''I love you" I said, but your eyes following a flock of birds, you didn’t hear.
Soon you'll be going away, I thought, but I'll only weep when you're gone.
"Look.." you pointed, "the fisher is hauling the lobster pots.''
One by one the fisher hauled a string of eight pots from the blue sea. "Look a crab and a lobster..."
We walked on, the wind picking up a little. ''I'm tired", you said, "can we rest awhile?''
Sitting under the bright sparkling sun we gazed into the pool of clear water and watched the pebbles flow at the bottom of the shallows.
You moved in with your camera, the one I bought for your birthday, to take pictures of the wind.
The rays of the sun were disappearing when the wind blew a cloud over the ocean.
''Let's go home, I'm cold'' you whispered.
Walking the narrow path that led to the cottage, we stopped to see the brook's soft rippling water.
You cried out: ''O, look darling, a dead seagull''. The poor thing met the pane of glass. ''Can we bury it?'' And we did.
The man was on us with an offering of fresh mackerel.
''Fry them with a clove of garlic'', he said, looking towards the little grave. I told him it was a herring gulls'.
He told us a story about nursing a herring gull back to health and freeing it to the wild. Not long after, at sea in his rowing-boat, a thick mist rolled in from the sea and soon overtook his little boat, enveloping him in its thickness. The shoreline was lost to his sight, all he could do was wait for the mist to lift. Closing his eyes he drifted off, thinking his time was up, sooner or later we all pay the ferrymen he thought.
A herring gull flew out of the mist, flapping its wings, somehow he knew he must follow it. Then a fresh wind blew over the ocean, the sea kicked up and the little boat danced a jig on a crest of a wave.
His tale over, we watched him leave, as he gazed up to the blue sky.
I see him coming now, the flowers wrapped in yesterday's newspaper, held close to his heart. I wish your herring gull was still alive, he will say again.
I must go now the caretaker wants to close the cemetery gates. :angel:
He was the same fisherman we watched launching his lobster boat earlier in the day when we walked on the beach.
We saw youngsters discovering the joy of adventure. ''Careful!" you called to them: " the rocks are still wet from high tide.'' Then you kissed me. Your lips tasted sweet, like ripe fruit.
''Your hair feels wiry" you said.
The crisp taste of salt was on the breeze as we walked on the white sand, tinkering with the tiny shells.
''I love you" I said, but your eyes following a flock of birds, you didn’t hear.
Soon you'll be going away, I thought, but I'll only weep when you're gone.
"Look.." you pointed, "the fisher is hauling the lobster pots.''
One by one the fisher hauled a string of eight pots from the blue sea. "Look a crab and a lobster..."
We walked on, the wind picking up a little. ''I'm tired", you said, "can we rest awhile?''
Sitting under the bright sparkling sun we gazed into the pool of clear water and watched the pebbles flow at the bottom of the shallows.
You moved in with your camera, the one I bought for your birthday, to take pictures of the wind.
The rays of the sun were disappearing when the wind blew a cloud over the ocean.
''Let's go home, I'm cold'' you whispered.
Walking the narrow path that led to the cottage, we stopped to see the brook's soft rippling water.
You cried out: ''O, look darling, a dead seagull''. The poor thing met the pane of glass. ''Can we bury it?'' And we did.
The man was on us with an offering of fresh mackerel.
''Fry them with a clove of garlic'', he said, looking towards the little grave. I told him it was a herring gulls'.
He told us a story about nursing a herring gull back to health and freeing it to the wild. Not long after, at sea in his rowing-boat, a thick mist rolled in from the sea and soon overtook his little boat, enveloping him in its thickness. The shoreline was lost to his sight, all he could do was wait for the mist to lift. Closing his eyes he drifted off, thinking his time was up, sooner or later we all pay the ferrymen he thought.
A herring gull flew out of the mist, flapping its wings, somehow he knew he must follow it. Then a fresh wind blew over the ocean, the sea kicked up and the little boat danced a jig on a crest of a wave.
His tale over, we watched him leave, as he gazed up to the blue sky.
I see him coming now, the flowers wrapped in yesterday's newspaper, held close to his heart. I wish your herring gull was still alive, he will say again.
I must go now the caretaker wants to close the cemetery gates. :angel: