Fishing

When I close my eyes,
I see the docks—
small fishing village.
Wooden ships at anchor, 
Small shore houses
one against another. 

Color. 

Seagulls calling overhead, 
The creak of the wind 
stirring the masts and rigging, 
the sound of the bumpers of coiled rope 
scraping against the side of the dock. 
The smell of the sea, 
an autumn breeze. 

And grief again.
Unexplained.
Sorrow beyond belief
for I don't know what.
I have pulled up empty nets
and cursed them.
Or nets filled to breaking
with the wrong fish
and cursed them too.

Tonight
I closed my eyes
and understood.

I have been fishing
for my own lost innocence.