Clumsily struggling to water’s
Edge with his stick helping,
He looked out at the rock
Promontories and imagined
The perch and opaleye.
Nearly falling he snatched
A handful of sand, standing,
Letting it fall through his
Fingers, he remembered
Susan at the tiller while
He shortened sail
On the way to
Long Point in a
Stormy sea.
He had dropped over
The side and speared
Some fish they had no
Appetite to eat,
Swinging as they
Were at anchor
In that angry sea.
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