We stand on this sandy point in the bay,
where the channel races into squally seas,
knee deep in riffles that mirror the gray
of iron clouds rushed by the gusting breeze.
Partly clothed by the sea, I scarcely heed
the raw, bitter rain. Balanced here, I stand,
and see schooling, swerving silversides lead
quick unseen hunters past our ledge of sand.
In their path, we stretch, then draw, our small seine,
and the wet, the chill, the gray, the chop recall
the old village ships, struck by gusts and spray
as they ploughed these waves. And now once again,
we net our catch, as those ships dragged their trawl
of silver to the beach across the bay.
Robert Youngs Pelgrift, Jr. practiced law in New York City for many years and is now an editor for a legal publisher, working in New York City. His poems have been published in various anthologies and in The Lyric, The Rotary Dial and The Galway Review.
Foxglove Journal 