Far past the harbour's lantern glow,
Where black waves breathe and cold winds blow,
A lonely fisher grips the rail
And watches nothing breach the veil.

No siren sings. No sea beast wakes.
No leviathan the silence breaks.
The line sinks down through fathoms deep,
While even Neraeos seems asleep.

The gulls are gone. The stars are dim.
The ocean has no use for him.
He casts. He waits. He checks the bait.
He casts again. He learns to hate.

The hours crawl like wounded things,
With none of all the thrill one brings
In tales of monsters, storms, and gold.
Just wet rope, salt, and fingers cold.

Perhaps a fish will bite by dawn.
Perhaps the bait will simply be gone.
Perhaps he'll haul some meagre prize,
Not worth the ache behind his eyes.

And still the endless waters roll,
As boredom gnaws upon the soul.
Deep-sea fishing, grandly named:
Mostly waiting, damp and shamed.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Scarlatan, in the year 1013 AF.