THE FISHER MAN

Upon the shore at break of day,
Where ocean mists begin to stray,
A lone man casts his net once more,
To seek the treasures from the floor.

His boat is worn, his hands are old,
His eyes are sharp, his spirit bold.
He speaks to winds, to waves, to skies,
And reads the sea with weathered eyes.

The gulls above, they know his name,
They cry his tale in wind and flame.
He hums a tune of salt and foam,
For sea and sky have made his home.

He knows the pull of tide and moon,
He sings to stars, he sleeps at noon.
Each fish he takes, he thanks with grace,
A prayer for life in ocean’s place.

No riches line his humble chest,
No golden crown adorns his crest.
But in the waves and morning light,
He lives a life both pure and right.

So when you walk where sea winds play,
And see a boat at break of day,
Think of the man who loves the deep—
The fisherman, who dreams in sleep.