421

421

“Each hour has its colour,” a dit le vieux,

As he hauled the net, bulging with cray,

Onto the grey surface of the mooring.

“In the opening of every thought,

“A light intends, that colours the thought,

“And sometimes the colours combine.”

We stood silently and watched him strain

At the net and watched the red and yellow

Armour of the cray deform and reconfigure.

“When the hour aligns with a good thought,

“It all comes down through, and it is like

“A gigantic prism. That is when we watch,”

He said, shaking the writhing creatures out.

His blue and white shirt swayed to and from

The fallen-away part of his grey breast.

As he spoke he indicated the blonde houses

Along the shore, and turning back to us,

Smiled solicitously. “Stay,” a dit le vieux,

“Take a seat in the bistro along by there,

“Drink a coffee or have a glass of wine,

“And allow yourself to see what will occur.”

He let the net fall from his hands. He went

Down in the boat, sat on the forward thwart,

And folded his withered arms over his belly.