Bearing
Watching him that spring-spilled-into-summer,
sat among Algar Seco’s jagged rocks,
steadfast with rod, tub of bait,
water, hunk of bread,
still and magisterial as a stork in its nest
settled above the walls of Silves,
I recovered what it was to wait –
content, not out of hope or faith
but for the catch that always comes;
a clutch of silver by dusk just as
us, stumbling onto the beach one night,
finding that added depth in each other’s eyes.
Ben Wilkinson
