The Fishermen

As ancient as poetry (though most of them are wide-eyed boys or gangly youths – only one has a beard – it seems he is their father); as ancient as the sea itself, from which they turn to find their way over sharp rocks, up steep-banked shores: a family of fishermen with their catch. We exchange greetings. I continue along the coastal path. As they climb the grassy hills that shift from green to grey, their high now distant silhouettes make symbols. I think I can see Old Father Time Christ mounting calvary (his cross a fishing rod over the shoulders) and somewhere amongst the group a brooding spirit hovers: here is the godhead within – without – more than a trinity but too humble for divinity.

 

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