We’re voyeurs from across Baie Verte
watching Nova Scotia’s shore,
lights a-blinking from Pugwash to
North Port.
Later in Port Elgin, New Brunswick
fishermen and their growing tales
hurry across our supper table
about crops, kids, taxes, and of course
lobster fishing flavors the
conversation-
“250 traps finally tarred,
shameful only eleven fishing boats
now carry on the tradition…”
are further thoughts from men
hardened in long years
upon the sea, their heritage.
Millers are a parade of flutters
against our window pane.
© Richard L. Provencher
First published January 2004
Issue 8 Ink Magazine
Comments
maggyvaneijk | August 17, 2011 - 18:33
Love the sense of movement in this piece, all your descriptions are in some sort of motion. A beautiful poem!
Richard L. Prov... | August 18, 2011 - 01:19
Thank you so much, Maggie... It's like the swaying of a fishing dory, Eh? Richard LP