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Ocean Grove beach. By Paul Goldfinger ©

Ocean Grove beach. By Paul Goldfinger ©  Click to enlarge.

 

Hi Paul:

Greetings again from Manhattan. In late summer, I like to visit Ocean Grove and watch the surf casters, with their long rods and spinning reels, working on the shore, usually alone, hurling their lures far into the dark Atlantic, and then waiting patiently for the bluefish, striped bass, or other gift the ocean might offer up. Here is a poem, “The Surf Caster,” from my collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Charles Pierre. 2009. Photo by Marcella Kerr

Charles Pierre. 2009. Photo by Marcella Kerr

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Surf Caster

 

The fine line that keeps him connected to the depths

runs long into the night, a translucent filament

of strength through the dark and turbulent surf.

How quietly it flows from shore to ocean floor,

from his practiced wrist along the flexing rod,

as each tug of the tide, each questioning nibble

and answering jig, pulses through the eye loops

down to the spooling reel. He probes the ocean

with a lure of his own devising, charm and hook

tooled not for local fish but the far-swimming schools.

A slight vibration and his line now sparkles

with wetness in the glow of phosphor water,

humming in the summer wind, radiating a soft mist,

a sign of something below, something other than

the common catch, something only he would know.

 

 

BILL FRISELL   “Across the Universe.”    From the album  “All We Are Saying” (2011)

 

 

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