Men Fishing

I have seen men fishing. In the cool shade of the blue-shadowed hills The water flowed over white pebbles, And the amber pools were hiding places for opal beauties. The swish of a line, the gay trill of a bird on a sun-patterned tree, Or the splash of a wary fish upstream were the only sounds. I have seen men fishing for pleasure.

I have seen men fishing. Off the Grand Banks, in the fog and cold Men in dories, men hardy and strong, hauled in white-bellied cod. The yellow boats rocked and rolled in the ocean swell, But work went steadfastly on. As the fog lifted other craft came in sight, Heavy-laden with their silver prey managed deftly with rough hands. While the rank air of the sea enveloped all. I have seen men fishing for pay.

I have seen men fishing. A grey line in a human queue passed down to the wharves; Each shabbily dressed man carried a small can of bait, All walked slowly. Sitting on the edge of a coal-blackened quay they fished for hours. Sometimes a small fish was caught and pulled up Where it flopped ungracefully over the rough boards. No word was spoken, and sullen eyes were seldom lifted to the cold chimneys across the bay. The mills were closed. I have seen men fishing for food.