At the Fishhouses

Although it is a cold evening,
all the fishhouses have their lights on. They are all white and the strength of the light
yard is somewhat soothing.

The fishhouses that stood at the edge of the sea,
each drawing in
all the different tides;
the white stone of fishhouses,
like days I have loved and wasted:
my father, longing to fish,
yet lightened spirit.
And the sun as it rises, collapsing
through the darkness.

But it is not the sky nor my hearth tonight
that becomes one with water. These layers of fish, heavy and shimmering,
so tightly bodied,
hang quiet in their buckets,
who think the fish may yet come close
to eat them;
how similar their thoughts are,
how intently they dwell.

They seem far from the skin,
years of struggles below them—their dreams light, like a glimmer where stars are stored! Echoes sound on stone, but tonight I hear the fish
crashing through water—
shone there, hung upon small hooks—

I shall survive, sustain
a world of loss, light! What differences shall break my heart?
Like life, it returns to me,
a self, an echo of what went forth;
I reach the door but am it;
wish mere burden once un-fell,

where each breeze that sounds at my back
how surreal I some time return;
the real light of distorted waves,
I can imagine warm
soft flutterings
of foam traveling around— tired but free.

The night is hot,
heavy—the still—fishing for me alone! What shores did I once taste?
I am a luxurious stone,
a world comforting,
that which I will not face again—.

Strung with unsung fish and found light,
with hung singing and proud crows.

But there it glows anew;
I can down through timeabouts;
those bright, golden eyes, until it breaks.
The sounds are changing!
Yet they are there, too— as the lights finally motor on.

• Elizabeth Bishop