Wynken, Blynken, and Nod (reprise)

 

 

They set forth again, the fishermen three,

their chair of seasoned steel, rolling free,

their wheels carrying stories gathered

from seas where frolic once travelled.

 

Gold in their hair, not from youth’s frame

but from the long sun’s patient flame,

they cast their nets not for silver schools

but for recollection’s wispy spools.

 

Wynken carries songs of ports remembered,

Blynken charts the stars with care,

Nod reclines, eyes half‑closed,

seeing the horizon as a gentle gate.

 

No lullaby now, but a tide of years,

each turn a companion, each gust a guide.

They travel into dusk, not to vanish,

but to dwell where sky meets sea.

 

And if children once dreamed them,

let elders now glimpse their passage:

three fishermen, golden, weathered,

harbourmasters waving to unfurling sails.

 

 

 

 

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