Halfway up from the little harbor of sardine boats, <br />Halfway down from groves where the thin, bitter almond pips <br />Fatten in green-pocked pods, the three net-menders sit out, <br />Dressed in black, everybody in mourning for someone. <br />They set their stout chairs back to the road and face the dark <br />Dominoes of their doorways. <br /> <br />Sun grains their crow-colors, <br />Purples the fig in the leaf's shadow, turns the dust pink. <br />On the road named for Tomas Ortunio, mica <br />Winks like money under the ringed toes of the chickens. <br />The houses are white as sea-salt goats lick from the rocks. <br /> <br />While their fingers work with the coarse mesh and the fine <br />Their eyes revolve the whole town like a blue and green ball. <br />Nobody dies or is born without their knowing it. <br />They talk of bride-lace, of lovers spunky as gamecocks. <br /> <br />The moon leans, a stone madonna, over the lead sea <br />And the iron hills that enclose them. Earthen fingers <br />Twist old words into the web-threads: <br /> <br />Tonight may the fish <br />Be a harvest of silver in the nets, and the lamps <br />Of our husbands and sons move sure among the low stars.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-net-menders/
