(An elegy to Pete Mosness)

The blind old man weaves his dreams. . .
Standing under midnight moon, alone,
He fondles web, salmon gillnet,
Tool of years of living, living.

Now his mind sees with eyes no longer his.
Worrying web through crooked fingers,
He feels his life, his years:
Another salmon, another yet;
Pull web, stretch, pop fish to deck.
Another salmon, another .....

"Dad", she says to him, afraid for him.
"Dad, it's late. You must be tired."
"Yes" he says, shifting arthritic foot on lawn,
Worrying yet more fish no one can see.
"I am tired."

"It's slow tonite; you can sleep."
"Yes" he says. "I will sleep."
But his hands continue their slow work;
His eyes stare blankly, imagining fish.
"Come, Dad, we will find your bunk."
"I will sleep", he says, and lays aside the web.

She helps him into his house, where the old man lies down.
And he sleeps, dreaming years.
And sleeps, and never wakes.