Filed under: Cuba, Travel, eating, fishing, food, hope | Tags: fisherman, hope, hunger, luck, sea
Sitting on a polystyrene float
Fishing for something,
Feet soaked in salt water,
Cold on the ankles now
As the night-shift approaches,
Watching the water, hoping,
For some late luck to
Dangle off the hook,
As lovers sit, some, backs to
The sea, others, backs to
The road, always pairs
Unless a fisherman,
Solitary, but for bucket, rod
And hope.
He sits, sits, polystyrene
Squeaks and creaks and
Waves lap skin and vessel,
Taunting, teasing, ‘What?Still
No catch?’ They seem to say,
Those little bumps and ripples,
Carefree in their endlessness.
Time to go, back over the
Malecon*, home, to hunger and
Hungry Rosita, nothing to
Go with rice and beans
But chilled ankles and
Guitar strum.
*Malecon is Havana’s conrete wall, about 4 feet high and 2 wide, erected to keep the sea out
Filed under: control, earth, healing | Tags: branches, luck, objectives, plan, risk, roots
List your objectives,
One two three.
Tick them all, perhaps.
But branches grow from
nodes unseen, wrought in
Secret, deep within the trunk;
Roots find water and,
Without reflection on Luck
Or Risk, drink deep, sending
High and varied growth
To greet wind and find sun
