Beach - Prince Mensah

gray Atlantic waves break upon
shores where voices of commerce
merge with wailing winds and sea gulls.
A sleepy morning already busy
with bargains between fisherman,
fish sellers and throngs that come early
to avoid middleman business
in the form of cutthroat market prices.
Morning sun, the beauty of gold on gray
waters, the glory in the clouds

wet feet made so by foamy waves
as crabs run to and from holes
sealed, opened and sealed again on
endless shore dwelt upon by stubborn grass,
coconut trees, ancient shipwrecks
with items the sea spits at high tide.
Canoes on the sea, men with nets
hunting on water for scaly prey while
luckier ones conduct brisk business on shore
amidst din of a roused city.

Busy beach road, curious folks scorn
smell of fresh fish, even worse
the sight of entrails as knife falls
on hapless fish held by hands so greasy
with blood enough to scare a man,
this spectacle scares fishermen barely.
As rowers ardor with finesse,
net-throwers catch the tide as it rises,
their faces splashed upon by its wide spray;
their adventure, the joy of crowds

Some to watch canoes, others waves
that batter ‘DO NOT SWIM’ poles;
awe on a child’s face, swimmers on
constant watch for undercurrents, the mass
of water, power to break necks,
adolescents watch their fathers with pride
as they pull a school with their nets
wives patient with baskets, praying awhile
their men battle water and wind. On shore,
the old fishermen get witty

as circumstances bring back memories:
a dangerous job that burnt calories
but never ceased to bring smiles upon
faces of maidens who got forlorn
whenever canoes had to go to sea
Post a Comment