There was an old man in Flatts

skinning fish with a knife the length of my hand.

His coffee coloured arms were covered in iridescent scales

and he sat on the edge of the dock

so his legs could swing over the side.

He looked like a young boy

careless and happy,

despite his age and he was whistling.

We got to talking,

this old man and me,

speaking of simple things like the weather

and the fish he’d caught.

He extended a scaly arm, knife ended

and pointed out his tattered wreck of a boat,

pride unhidden in his voice.

He looked me and smiled,

sensing I understood the importance of man and vessel.

And suddenly he wasn’t an old man any longer.

He was some forgotten god,

half-fish, half human,

finless and alone, covered in shimmering scales.

A different kind of eternal boatman,

one that carried no passengers, preferring the

solitude the ocean provided and the joys of sailing

unburdened and boundless.

I was certain he chased hurricanes whilst at sea

to pass the time;

to let the lightning and the thundering wind

make him feel more alive

then he could ever be while on land.

Here was a being who read the seas like they were newspaper

and, I suspected, sang the fish into his boat

for I saw no nets as we sat together.

We had not conversed long,

although at the time he made me feel ageless

and got me thinking all time had passed by

as cleanly as he skinned his fish.

I stood and he saluted me,

knife to his temple

and a downward flick that left scales

latched on my bag like raindrops

as if in tribute of our meeting.

I smiled as he turned back to his work

and I, honored,

felt blessed as I made my way home.