The Fisherman’s Last Tide Poem, by Mottakeenur Rehman, at My poetic side

Three days he stayed—then slipped away,
his boat a ghost at break of day.

I caught his face in silver light,
lips cracked with cold, hands bleached and white.

No grief for palms that hauled the dead,
yet left no crumb where children tread.

I see him still—his lantern’s flame,
a drowning sun no dawn could name.

She loved the vastness of the Bay—
its salted breath, its wild ballet.
But now she fears even that sea;
its hunger gnaws her memory.

“He ruled the waves,” his widow said,
her voice a hook I still have bled.

“Once...” she tried—I turned to stone.
“No child of mine will starve alone.”

Why? The wind clawed at the door.
She gripped the chair, and spoke no more—

Now, inside her chest, lies a mournful sea,
where tides of silence drown her plea.

“The sea returns no borrowed breath.
I’ll trade no more my love for death.”

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