The Old Fisherman: DAILY DEVIATIONThe old fisherman pulled in his nets as chill salt wind stung chapped lips. There were but few small fish to feed his thin, weathered frame. It mattered not. He bore no wife at home, no child at hearth to roam. He was alone.The Old Fisherman: DAILY DEVIATION by roadkillKitten
The fog hid land from view as he pulled at the water-sodden oars, but this too mattered not to the old fisherman. He knew the way home. The fish he would roast o’er stone and fire with potatoes he’d grown in soil of his small plot. A lob of pork-fat would make his feast, and within his gut did growl at the very thought. He whistled a tune to cover the sound as he lent his back to plow the waves.
A resounding tune came to his ear, of maiden’s voice clear as bells. The old fisherman cocked his head to hear, such lullaby as to bring a tear. The sound it seemed pulled at his very heart strings. It made the old fisherman lean to his starboard side with oar and ear, to this he must better hear. The song, the tune, was some such melody as to draw him hit