Seasons of a Fisherman
(for Yun, Son Do)
by Vernon James Mooers
I have come to Bogil Island to escape
Have slain and buried my dead horse
under the persimmon trees
on the hill above the river.
I have only my friends now
the moon and ocean
the rocks, pines and bamboo.
I have the seashells on the beach
to keep me company.
Small boys pile stones like pagodas
azuma in her straw hat
tends the rice fields
now covered with tender shoots
and apple blossoms burst
on mugunghwa covered hills.
The mountains rise from the sea
like majestic dragons.
Waves lick the kim-covered shoreline
And crash upon the buoys of
fishing nets.
September 29 , 2005
