Laura Plummer is an American writer from Massachusetts. Her work has been featured in numerous print and online publications. Read more at lauraplummer.me.
Downeast Marry young and have your babies; they’ll give you some sweet memories. When they lay you under those trees, that’s all you can take with you. He lived his whole life Downeast, trapping lobsters for the rich man’s feast. A lifetime store of elbow grease -- that’s all you can take with you. One day I’ll turn to dust within this rocky shore where lie my kin. The suit my boys will bury me in -- that’s all you can take with you. When these bones are laid to rest, they’ll place some flowers o’er my chest. I’ll know that I have done my best. That’s all you can take with you. Marry young and have your babies; they’ll give you some sweet memories. When they lay you under those trees, that’s all you can take with you. The Fisherman The cellar has a fisherman, or so the neighbors say. He’s only here four weeks a year; he never comes to stay. They send his letters to the house, addressed to unit D, which sit in bundles on the stoop when he goes out to sea. His face is creased and leathered like a worn-out pair of shoes. He drinks away the endless days as he awaits the news that Cap’n’s heading out again and gathering his crew. For now, he pours another pint and drowns himself in brew. The job is in his blood, the only life he’s ever known. A wife and kids were not to be, but he was not alone. The locals always welcomed him when he returned to shore. For thirty years he’s fished these banks; he’ll fish for thirty more. A lively raconteur, the folks of Gloucester knew him well. And as he roamed from pub to pub, the stories he would tell of days of roping swordfish and harpooning raging whales. The people gathered at his side to hear his wild tales. He now resides beneath the earth, unsatisfied on land. He’s darkened all the windows in his castle made of sand. He hasn’t got a visitor to bring him company -- the Cape Ann gulls and cormorants his only family. He won’t emerge in daylight when the sun is in the trees or peek his head outside to feel the chilly autumn breeze. They say his silhouette is sometimes seen by lantern’s light. You’ll find him slowly passing like a ghost ship in the night. The cellar has a fisherman, or so the neighbors say. He’s only here four weeks a year; he never comes to stay. The cellar-dwelling fisherman is waiting for his call, a faded phantom sea dog who may not exist at all.
1 Comment
|
Archives
February 2022
Categories |