Paper money flutters into the air. With that his hands are free. He fills the void with whiskey and hugs a friend sitting beside him.
‘What does it matter?’ he asks.
For all of his stillness the Fisherman moves relentlessly. He fills his soul without regret. He invests in time like a swallow to a breath of air. He holds the night in his hands.
Home is by the river. An abandoned smokestack is his gatepost. Fast-against-the-wall windows are embossed by craft and character, which he ministers with the care of a surgeon to a rose.
When heart is absent from toil this is where heart is.
‘Shall we have some breakfast?’ he asks.
So we climb out of the kitchen window, cross the wooden bridge and walk the length of the small island to the jettee on the waters edge.
Late at night the Fisherman buys his cigarettes from the girls who work at the local Bordello, politely declining drink and dance with a quiet charm and a codicil smile.
He defends the fool from himself. Work means his fellow man’s progression. Even exhaustion will never stop him searching.
The river works at an endless pace like kind words. The sun reflects the sparkle in his eyes on the waters bright surface.
There are a section of rapids 200 yards upstream. The Fisherman gladly chooses to swim the other way.