Night Fishing
by Alan Mahood

Pack of Luckys crumpled
In the sand
Next to the coleman hanging
From a forked stick.
Beer cans in the ditch
Next to the path coming down
The hill and an empty
Bottle of Old Grandad
On the rocks.
Sailboats dart about
Out in the channel and
The occasional
Barge pushes upstream and
As the sun sinks
Quiet gradually seeps
In until the only
Sounds are the hissing of the
Coleman, the lapping of the waves
Against the sand and the hulls
Of the boats moored across the
Spit, and the low voices of
The men and the giggles of the girls
In the boats.
We set our lines,
Drink from our bottle
Of wine,
Our quiet voices adding to the
Night murmur, and only
The dark moon unseen above
Watches as we make love
In the sand and the warm
Clear water.

-amahood




10-03-1999

09/22/2001

Posted on 09/22/2001
Copyright © 2024 Alan Mahood