The Fisherman

He walked on up to the cottage from

The cliff, the long way round,

He didn’t want to be seen or heard,

His footsteps made no sound,

He was wearing the same old overcoat

That he’d worn, those years before,

When he’d sauntered out of the cottage,

To take a walk on the shore.

The weather then had been brisk and cold

In the first few days of Spring,

The clouds had been light and fluffy then

He remembered everything,

The gulls were nested along the cliff

And the tide was on the turn,

A single fisherman cast his line

On the far side of the burn.

The pathway down by the cliff had been

Rock strewn and fairly steep,

His steps back then had been tentative,

He had time enough to keep,

He’d told his wife he’d be back by one

From his walk along the shore,

And she had blown him a kiss for fun

As she swept him out the door.

But now he looked at the garden that

Had been so nicely mown,

The privet hedge, the wisteria

Were all now overgrown,

The cottage needed a coat of paint

And the chimney pots were cracked,

He stopped and mused at the garden gate

For the love the cottage lacked.

Then a face appeared at the window that

Was pale, and sad, and drawn,

And he wished the earth would swallow him

From the day that he was born,

The door flew open and out she flew

Like a shrew, with little grace,

A look of scorn as he stood there, torn

And she slapped him round the face.

‘What do you mean by coming here,

Did you hope to see my tears?

You walked away, not a word to say

And you don’t come back for years.’

She screamed and pounded his overcoat

As he took one pace, and stepped,

Folding his arms around her as

She clung to him, and wept.

‘I think I know how the others felt

But it’s all beyond recall,

I only talked to the fisherman,

And I was held in thrall,

He talked and talked of the things to come

It was most distinctly odd,

The world closed in around me till

I felt I was talking to God.’

‘He said so much, and it sounded wise

But I can’t recall a thing,

I wanted to get back home to you

For time was hastening,

But the sun went down and the Moon came up

Which was when he said it, then,

‘I’m not here looking for fish,’ he said,

‘For I’m a fisher of men.’

‘It’s been three years,’ said his tear-stained wife,

‘It has been three years or more,

Since ever you took your leave of me

To wander down on the shore.’

‘That was the time of his ministry,’

He said, ‘and I was to blame,

He  kept on calling me Judas, though

I said that wasn’t my name.’

‘He said that we needed forgiveness, like

I need forgiveness from you,

I honestly don’t know where I’ve been

But I know I’ve always been true.

He packed up his fishing tackle in

A bag he kept on the sand,

Took thirty pieces of silver

And placed them back in my hand.’

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Marie]

Well. You've had 97 views on this, and I'm the first one to write a comment. That's probably because noone knows what to say.This is somethng very different from you, but I think it's very good. It would have made a great story, and I only wish I'd thought of it before you did.

[Ellen Hammond]

What an intriguing poem. Quite different from most of your poems I've read but you still have a nice twist to it.

[Marie]

I can't beliee you've had no feedback but mind on this. I think it's one of the best poems you've written.