Come August we will embrace again
as sailors do, the “red sky at night,
a sailor’s delight,” being the promise
the morning sun brings—a crucifixion to
the rainy skies. We will always embrace
the changing of the skies, the broken morning—
the shining son. My dad comes in August,
with the first tides, casting his nets
for prawns—and for me. It is the time
for feasting, and boasting and lying—
and some sorrowful August too soon,
dad’s last cast will break the water.