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  J. N. Khoury

Published on: 8/30/2012
Fisherman at Eve

The great, melting, golden orb of the sun
Is sinking like a dying god of yore
Gazing helpless at its soft reflection
In the sea that caresses lonely shore.
There the silhouetted fisherman is standing
With his net, like the robes of a royal merman,
In folds and billows around him lying
As around a king, not a simple layman.
The silent sea - but for its steady breathing -
Yellow it is in the dying light
With waves about the fisher gently heaving
A giant restless beast awaiting night.
The reeds along the shoreline lightly sway
In a breeze that bears the salt-smell of the sea
Saluting, rather sadly, the dying day
That sinks into honored tranquility.
The fisherman breathes deep the evening air
The salt-smell, the reeds, the sandy shore
And with hands deeply lined with time and care
Gathers up his nets to throw once more.

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