It’s a full moon night and I am out on the quay,
that stretches out in the bay of Le Carbet.
A tiny hamlet on the isle of Martinique,
It sits in the shadow of the the volcano, Mt. Pelee.
The water is dead calm and silver bright
and I am at peace with the world in the still of the night.
There is one other present with his pole, bucket and bait,
Who has cast out his line and sits and wait.
I had seen him before, his eyes always fixed out to sea,
contentedly whistling, never acknowledging me.
I would glance into his bucket and it would always be empty,
but he always seemed happy as if he had caught plenty.
The village behind us slumbers and sleeps
Its passions and pursuits in silence it keeps.
From the cratered summit above, down to the beach palms below,
under the moonlight, it cast a ghostly glow
Curiosity pulls me to look again into his bucket,
so I walk casually towards him trying to show no interest.
The waves lap underneath against the trestle of the pier
and I stare nonchalantly into his empty container.
“Salui,” I greet him. “How goes the fishing?” I ask.
He turns not minding I’ve interrupted his task.
“Never better,” he says, his smile out shining the moon, amused at my puzzle over his empty vessel.
“I used to come fishing here with my father,” he replies to my pry. “He died 6 months ago.”
And I begin to understand why.
“When I’m here with my rod, and my line out to sea, my Dad returns and he fishes with me.”