Peter casts the nets,
Helps the winded bow to break
Against the gust which
Winsome cracks against the
Stern; it rides between
I breathe against the galloping
air; the wind that was
Whipping from the mid-morn, but in the
Fifth watch of the night, swallows
Still. Andrew of the shoreline
Watches well, Sunday, and fishes
I would have arrived home and
Winter din quelled, have supped upon a grain,
A handsome face across from me
And children blowing bellows in the
Fold of evening gold.
But Old Lord has in for me
A better fate, upon the tide.
He has me swelling nets with
Produce of the sea, which I know
Not, nor can I see,
Nor do I predict, nor can I know,
Nor days with rain forget.
I cannot by the bedside shirk
The day’s odd job beneath the
Tasking sun: the fish to find.
Lord, my God, love would better
be made of Life, and children worry less
With nets of my own design
Than this, the wharf, than this
But you will listen not today,
Until we have brought the oceanwide
To hungry at the edge
Where bellowing children sup on winter
Grain, aside our handsome wives.