The Fisherwoman is a waiting poem, a reflection on finding treasures inside or outside, on hope, dreams, action, and inaction.
The Fisherwoman – Waiting Poem
She was always fishing, fishing for fish and catching carp, day and night she’d stand at the shore, eyes gleaming, hands wound around the rod. She was always ready, ready for the bite and the pull, day and night she’d rest at the shore, soul pumping, fingers encapsulating the rod. She was always waiting, waiting for salmon or monkfish, day and night, she’d paint the ocean blue and green, palms harbouring soft horse-hair brushes, bare feet kissing the sand. She was always seeing, seeing the fish and touching the crabs, day and night she was sure, sure of the drag on the line so strong, she’d have to throw her whole self to reel in that oyster.
She was always starving, starving the pigeon and choking butterflies, day and night she’d muffle the tweets, ears flying, hands hanging down to the ground. She was always deaf, deaf to the song and the chirp, day and night she’d stuff her ears, body curling, fingers flicking aloud. She was always clipping, clipping the feathers or claws, day and night, she’d chop down the sprouts and maggots, palms slapping weeds, feet stomping the soil. She was always passing, passing up swallows and skipping seagulls, day and night she was blind, blind to the cuckoo’s eggs inside, cracking.