FIONNPHORT, ISLE OF MULL, SCOTLAND

Many mornings I awaken
longing for the shore,
called to the waters of my baptism,
seeking to drink deeply

the sounds of water
lapping at the jetty
synchronizing with my heartbeat,
I settle into nature’s rhythms.

Pale and faded crab cages
stacked by the dock
wait to be summoned to duty
in the fruitful sea.

Not even the acrid burnt diesel fuel
from the rusty old trawler
can mask the pungent seaweed scent
that stirs my soul to sing.

For I am a man of the water
whether by tears of joy or grief
I know my maker brings me here
where we can meet and be.