The Angler

The sea those days was pure and the water it was clear,
Not polluted as ‘tis now, when filth is everywhere.
On some rocks that jutted from the border of the bay,
The little wavelets lapped, their music bright and gay,
And every morning there the angler brought his line,
With creel to fill with fish he sought beneath the brine.
When one looks upon the water the soul finds perfect rest,
But then to catch the fish one’s skill is put to test.
Beneath that moving surface lie treasures of the deep,
What can one find today, from the sea a harvest reap?
I watched his every movement and the bobbing of his float,
A jerk would lodge the hook deep in the fish’s throat.
The art of the fisherman comes from earliest lore,
Learnt by ancient instinct, like farming and the war.
Christ’s apostles practiced it, in Providence their trust,
Sometimes empty-handed but in God believing most.
One might fill the basket or of fish have not a trace
When coming to the family who wait with anxious face.
From father on to son, the craft is handed down,
The sea has many humors, which to them are known.
But tonight all dine on fish, that is something sure,
The fish have started biting, there will be many more.
The creel will soon fill up with fish of every kind,
For there are many species that by the shore we find,
Mullet swim round freely while others gnaw the reef,
Yet others lie in waiting in the sand in water deep.
Some reflect the rainbow with colors flashing bright
And others with pale hues escape the keenest sight.
The angler takes a worm from those writhing in his jar,
Impales it on the hook and then he casts it far.
He sits absorbed and happy, his hat-brim pulled down low,
Never losing patience, from morn till evening glow.
His lives a life-long prayer, when he thinks about Our Lord,
Who with two meager fishes fed a hungry horde.
Today he can go home with a smile beneath his hat,
Awaited by his family, wife, children and the cat!

Joseph Matar
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Translated from French: K. J. Mortimer