He puts on the bait
Of quahog, that gets me
A bright little flipper,
Or a plaice fish nets me;
That I’ll haul in a whale
He occasionally bets me.
Silence and fishing,
Sun, understanding;
Fun to see off-islanders
Tack in and miss their landing.
Quiet winks exchanged
While tobacco you’re handing.
No boasting here,
No meanness with minnows;
Commonwealth of Bait
Debts only finn-owes;
And a great quiet kindness
And much color blindness.
Maybe it comes from
Looking down so deep,
Where much is hidden
And much lies asleep;
With your eyes on the line,
Given you to keep.
Quiet pipes lit,
Quiet eyes reflective,
Rips a silver fish
From out the perspective;
To go fishing on the wharf
Is my one great Objective!
THE WALLACE DAISY FIELD.
Slim pointed pickets guard the summer dream,
Glimpsing behind their lichen-scrolléd bars;
Young shapes of white that in ethereal stream
Toss starry incense to the summer stars.
Ranked slender acolytes in harbor lane,
Communion bear to many a churchless breast;
Processional in falling summer rain,
Recessional to gold and Gothic West.
Only a daisy field—yet one man’s care
Enshrines it in immaculate gated reach;
Inviolate flowers veil them mistily there,
Spreading like moonlight to the moonlit beach ...
Where the white patens disk the tabled green
Is read the sacred Word of sea and skies;
Chapelled within this occult daisy screen
Is Sacrament for beauty-loving eyes.
YOUTH AND THE OLD MILL.
YOUTH