portion of the artwork for Mike Berger's poems

The Old Fisherman
Mike Berger

The gray Atlantic was in turmoil.
Breakers twenty feet tall crashed
on the shore. Spray flew.
A kaleidoscope of instantaneous
rainbows flashed in the afternoon sun.

The wind whistled through the rocks.
It rattled shutters and windows. The flag
stood straight out, flapping noisily.
A defiant old fisherman refused to yield.
He sat repairing his nets. He ignored
the wind. This was a struggle of wills.

The old man refused to give in. His wool
coat flapped erratically. His feet were planted
firmly on the nets to keep them from blowing
away. He seemed oblivious to the wind’s rude
attempts to chase him away.

Rain came but the old man didn’t move. He
was as stoic as a piece of rock. He was the
personification of the struggle between man
and nature; nature wasn’t going to win.

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