The Fisherman of Monterosso

The Fisherman of Monterosso

At six he ventures out,
"ciaos" his 80 year old dear,
with his rod and bucket,
he's off to Monterosso pier.

Looks across to the village,
so wonderfully alone,
this is the time of morning,
Monterosso is his own.

(another very old guy comes slowly out to the pier to meet my fisherman)

Old Giuseppe shuffles out,
to be with his good friend.
They stand, the two, and talk of fish,
and of the nets they'll mend.

Giuseppe stops to talk to me,
with four good teeth inside.
He is the sanguine of the group,
his smile, he smiles wide.

He decides it is a poem I write,
so he tells a poema too.
He quotes it clear and loud and strong,
in Italian, it is true.

So full of big arm gestures,
with a glimmer in his eye,
He tells of old time Monterosso,
of many days gone by.

(Giuseppe slowly walks away)

Slowly, oh so slowly,
my fisherman warms up.
He realized I was staying,
so he better just give up.

So we sat and watched the wiggle,
at the end his fishing line.
He would tell me his word
And I would tell him mine.

We cheered as much as he would cheer,
with every fish he caught.
I took it's photo, and he would grin,
before squirming in the pot.

So there's my special morning,
before I catch the train.
My fisherman, I'll miss you,
but I'll be back again!