The decaying sampan bobbles with the tide, rising and falling.

Into the Malacca Straits, her fissures weep with saudade,

Awaiting the pescados in the cool plum mists of early morning,

Awaiting that old man who comes and tills the sea.

The last few of his kind.

Here at the edge of all things,

His white-haired, bob-nosed face scans the horizon,

He casts his nets and awaits what the sea brings.

***

A deep sigh greets the ever-brightening day.

The ever-silent empty nets now retrieved, all but one,

The cool far-folded mists of the morn replaced with the realisation –

of an empty catch.

Alas! for this sickly old uncle,

Who in his youth was surrounded by happy times.

Like drunk men, who care not about the worries of the world,

Days filled with strong hours working.

And nights, with women, song, and wine,

And Christmas lunch with feng and ambilek,

With ta and ba and their daughters and sons.

Such naughty children who ask their mothers:

“Ma, what’s knife in Kristang?”

And get a slap in return.

Those days have passed now,

And the waters are mostly empty,

the sea receding inch by inch,

Reclaimed land – for the government.

A salty wave pierces the last net. It moves –

A catch!

A glimpse of that happy world where he was born.

The dying sea creatures glimmer in the mid-morning sun.

Tiny dancing prawns, a couple of handfuls.

Grago; he says, his sweet eyes brighten.

He never forgets that old joke.

Knife in Kristang is Faaka.

He smiles and jumps off the sampan.

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Cover image by Pahala Basuki on Unsplash.  The copyright of POETRY | Grago belongs to Matthew Jerome Van Huizen.