“Fisherman’s Daughter,” Jules Breton, WikiArt.

“Papa, can you feel island reawakening?”
Sun’s warming light on my face, chilled
Winds sea-lessening? Drip, drip, cold
Water tasting, except in shaded rocky
Crags, ice had disappeared. Earth’s deep
Warmth winter smoldering, coals stirred
Afire. On hill-winding paths, patches of
Grass returned, meadow flowers, petite
Blooms emerging, wind-waving, April
Life sprouted before our eyes.

No impeding ice, storming seas, boats
From Scotland settled on island shores,
Newspapers, mail, sheep brought for
Summer grazing, roaming flocks, how
Well they rode in open boats, awkward
Jumping onto to shore. “We have work
To do,” advised Papa, what we all knew,
Winter hibernation gave way to field
Plowing, peat digging, sails raising, net
Mending, dozen chores till nightfall.

Pungent concoction fire warming, Papa
Stirred slowly, adding creosote, linseed
Oil, dollop of turpentine, paint brushes
Nearby. Beached fishing boats turned on
Sides, mast leaning head-high, Papa said,
“Willow, we have job for you.” His idea
Of punishment? Mast hoop hardware he
Removed, wire brush for me waiting. As
Ghastly liquid I brush dipped, Papa’s
Advice, “Don’t get on your skin, clothes.”

Box standing, hands high reaching, first
Strokes of dark liquid on masts I painted,
Absorbed grain-deep, another dripping
Brush-full, slow, arduous task, painted
Just mast top-half, then mast hardware
Wire-brush shining new, running rigging,
All reassembled today. Laughing heard
From rock outcropping, salty fishermen,
April prank they played on me, fun and
Games, more relieved I was than peeved.

Thanks for reading. 

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