Helen Pizzey

The blind man lives alone in a loft on
the seafront. There he hangs villagers’ nets
to dry and mend, aware of their lattice
shadows falling on his spent retinas. With
each new net he spreads his arms wide,
measuring the extent of his work; embracing
the waters that cover the earth. His fingers
slowly feel their way across its surface,
looking for bony knots or slipping through
ruptures. He unpicks the tangles and fixes
the tears, making good the damage; easing
off the tension.