WebPoems

Nets down, prow up, the boat prowls

Just off the fuzzy peninsula; skiffs waddle near;

One big boat, loaded to near sinking, gets

Poled closer to shore. We can hear the wood

Clump on wood, smell the ropes tying down

Tarpaulin, bags, and sails, as these craft

Nibble at the edge of the dark island,

Center of so many masts, and fingernail rooves,

Below the sword-sweep of this bay,

Its forested arm slicing across the water,

All the way down the coast, to those tiny masts,

Busy about the fish at the curve of the earth,

Drinking the waters melting off the slopes

Of the thawing, but still snowbound Mount Fuji.