Skin tanned like leather, crinkled and dry,
Dried crystal salt, glistens in the sun.
Hands roughened and parched from pulling in nets,
Covered in scales, crevices and story filled scars.
The years are not kind, the elements are cruel,
Yet, he respected the sea, it's moods and it's ways.
Day after day he looked at the sky,
He tasted the air, watched the birds, do they work?
From whence did he come? No one knows,
Always there, alone, 'cept for the birds,
His friends and companions, from days been, and beyond.
He trusted no man, had no faith, in nowt but the sea and his life.
The old battered boat with it's tatty hemp rope,
They reflected their master, tired, bent and worn
For so long he had gone down to the sea.
One day, this old curiosity, stumbled into his boat,
Finding strength from his life, rowed from the beach, out of sight.
His boat, was found, washed up, on the rocks. Not a sign of the old man was there.
Gone was the knowledge, gained from years on the brine.
T'was only the birds that did care.

Shizara 1998