Saturday Poem

Fishers of Men

—After Duccio di Buoninsegna

A raw blue light.
The morning moon and a small wind
hold us fast between sea and sky.
Dawn hangs exhausted
above the lake of Tiberiade,
our sails weighted down
with morning dew.
All night we caught nothing,
our aching bodies
bent beneath the heavy dark,
pliable as waves, wet wood
creaking against worn leather.
Now dog tired, we wash
our empty nets,
though all we want is a cup of wine
a dry shirt and bed.
God and miracles are far
from our minds
as we heave in the windlass
just one more time.
In this floating world
where the sea is made of words
and waves whisper covenants
as fish become men,
silver blue bodies pour though the mesh,
sardine-scales coating our hair,
our skin in luminous benediction.

by Sue Hubbard