Every day, no matter the weather,
Wind, sun, cold or rain,
The fisherman would make his way
Down the dunes towards the sea.
If the tide was low, he would fish from the rocks,
Getting his bait from the rock pools first,
Then stand in the spray facing the sea
And cast his line beyond the waves.
When the tide was high, he would lie on the beach,
With his bag stuffed under his head,
And the line hooked round his finger to feel
If a fish had taken the bait.
I saw him catch a fish or three
And carry them, thread on a piece of string,
As he passed me by on his way back home
With a smile on his face and a soft greeting.