what becomes of once

he still rejoices
in arrival
of pilk fleet
and creel,

though tired legs
keep him bench bound
as the breakers
goes to sunset rest,
you can still feel

his mind transmitting,
trembling for those
who cares to hear
his silent, fading plea

to let a tackle
grind it's weary wheel
once more,

and turn
tension into motion,
friction into faint fumes
of intention tracing notion,
skimming past decision

into action,
travelling
along a once again
straightened hawser,

to raise a daring
dust white pride,
easily unwind
a clove-hitch bound,

watch the jetty
drift dozing free,
salute the pier,
and just know

that still,
when shores lean back
into the motherly arms
of horizon,

he can hear
that whisper
of eternal she,
ethereal lover,

the one
who will always
understand,
unravel the riddle
of incompletion,
twin connection,

to know what he can,
to set his ache free,

as they merge
once again,

the old man
and the sea