When the morning sun wrapped its vaporous shawl close
When the days were short and cold
Out in a sturdy skiff of wood in rain and sleet
And old fisherman rowed.
From dawn to dusk he set to sea
Casting his lines again and again
Reaping the harvest of the sea’s bounties
When the land’s were meager and drear,
Then he came home at night
To a cold, dark, hut
Lit precious wood in his stove
And put nice fresh fish in an old stew pot,
Later to the tune of the whistling storm
He settled close to the cooling stove
And let the tides of sleep carry him away
To a land of patchwork dreams.
One night as he listened to the storm
The thunder shaking his walls
As lightning split the air
He heard, in an expectant silence, a scratching at the door,
Begrudgingly he left his bed
For the night was fierce and cold
And cracked open his door to see
What the stoop might hold,
The lightning flashed and in its light
His eyes were met by an old hound dog
Soaked to the bone and shivering
It soulfully implored,
With a sigh the old man let it in
For it was no night to be out alone
And in it slunk gratefully
As the old but sturdy plank door shut out the storm,
He dried it with his holeyest blanket
He gave it heads and tails of fish
He rubbed its ears as it wagged its tail
And then went back to bed,
And as he drifted back to sleep
That old hound dog curled up on his feet
And the old man realized that up until now
His toes had been stone cold, sea cold, but not anymore.
