Seaside

an Eastertide poem

Burdened with the weight of unknowing—
with the smoke-smell and foul coals
simmering, denials and cursing—
the fisherman trudges to the sea.
He is a boulder of guilt.

He sails all night.
Searching, not finding,
unknowing.

He wanted to speak,
to cling to the Christ
in the locked room
when He appeared by night;
watched with wide eyes
while the God-man ate
broiled fish, a spectre of life.

Sin—sin—sin—it clung closer
and he feared to speak of it.

He could hardly look Him in the face.
Waste—he is laid waste by his own pride;
his steep fall. They speak of grace,
murmurs, prayers, whispers,
but he does not hear.

Empty nets,
empty chest
where a cracked heart
once stone-strong
has died with regret.

Friends, haven’t you any fish?

He hardly makes out the words
before flickering hope
lights new like low
burning coals
in that barren chest,
breathed back from
oblivion’s brink.

Try the other side.

He’s seen this before, this gift,
and he pulls with all his might
on those empty nets, casts
them unto the deep,
the other side,
like he wishes he could cast
off his own iniquities.

He doesn’t look up. He hovers
over the face of the water,
waiting for what he’s after,
waiting for confirmation
that his end is not come;
that his dead heart
will live again
like his Lord does.
Risen.

Fish—too many, far too many—
crowd in, wriggling scales,
briny salt, heavier than rocks,
and he pulls and pulls and pulls
and the net does not rip
on its impossible way up.

He’s throwing on his cloak,
leaping into the waves
he once walked,
swimming through the sea
to catch hold of the Lord
he loves
he loves
he loves
more than anything.

God’s son is waiting for him
on the shore with breakfast
fresh-cooked, warming coals,
bread, fish, an embrace, 
unfathomable, unthinkable grace.

Follow me.

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