The Net Mender

He sits there on a lobster trap,
Outlined against the sky,
With mended fishnet on his lap,
And sadness in his eye.
          For he longs to sail the sea once more,
          And hear the gale wind's mighty roar;
          To match his wits against the sea;
          To pace the deck where the wind blows free;
          To lie in the shade of a tall palm tree;
          But he is old, and sad, and he
                    Must mend the nets.

His weathered brow is paler now:
His keen eyes not so bright:
Still he longs for the surge of a schooner's bow,
And the crackle of canvas, pulled tight.
          How well he remembers Jamaican night,
          And the reefs of the Great Australian Bight.
          And he longs for the life of the days gone by,
          Knowing that soon he surely must die.
          But when he has gone to his port in the sky,
          Where stately schooners and clipper ships ply,
                    Who will mend the nets?