Fisher King

Sunset was too early tonight,
glowing dully against low, dark clouds
over hills of browning leaves and dormant grass.
Shivering, I watch the blue overhead
fade, shade by shade.
The boat sits quietly, I shift my old bones
to keep my legs from falling asleep.
Don't know why I came out here:
my tackle box is still planted
under the seat and
my rod stands at attention next to the stern.

Quiet is mine, beauty is mine,
at the price of a small chill.
Mine are the arrowheads above,
honking their way South;
mine are the sharp surprise snaps
of bass snaring their airborne prey
resting dangerously on the water's surface.
Mine are the clouds turning golden;
mine are ripples of distant boats
shuffling beneath my feet.

This was once a party boat
gliding from cove to cove,
ferrying light spirits from revel to revel,
stopping at secluded anchorages,
but this is now a one man boat:
the years have piled the other seats full
with relics of half remembered aspirations and dreams.

Glowtime on the Lake:
the sky and land grow dark while the
water gathers every ray to shine back against the dusk.
I am a dark speck on the shining white surface,
far from harbor, far from shore.
Time to go home while the Glowtime lasts,
dodge that deer the play in the gravel roads,
dress three layers deep for bed
in the empty/full house
and wait for Jesus' return.
(I'll come back here tomorrow if He doesn't.)