Skittish breeze breaks icily over the bow,
Where I sit, line around finger,
Anticipating my counterpart’s tug,
Below in depths reflected airly in the clouds.
Abeam I spy the stark upright branches
Of white beeches stretching before wintery repose,
Springing from chocolate banks of the now
Secure rock and sand of the strand.
Last day to hook a fish,
To spend on water lazing towards season of stasis,
I reel in my bait, to find him shriveled
Like my father’s hands.