Drying the Nets

The boats, anchored,
sails let loose like wind vanes,
brightly colored, flapping like flags.

Nets draped over the mast, drying
after a night in the sea. You can’t see them
but you know – Fishermen resting on the decks.

It is morning and the Mediterranean is at peace
and it is good to be alive, tired muscles and all.
Yes, there is mending to do. Repairs on the boat.

a thousand small tasks, a bit aimless,
no order. No real timeline, Leaving time
to rest.

Rest. You wonder at how much you need,
how some wounds never heal. Not all the way,
You wonder at the work to maintain

and keep yourself afloat, happy now
that none of it is critical, that you have abandoned
timelines, content with merely staying afloat.

About this poem

A poem about another age. A poem about depression. A poem about color at the end of the day. Poetry is never about one thing.

The Painting is “Drying the Nets” by Walter Launt Palmer. Painted about 1900. From a collection of paintings of Venice I went to last year.

Tom