THE DAY OF THE FESTIVAL

The day of the Festival, a hot,
Summer’s day, mid-afternoon, the tide
Streamed away down the beach,
Exposing first a fin, then a back,
Leaving at last a whale stranded.

Its furious thrashing in the race,
Its mad efforts to burst through
The sandy roil, make deep water,
Had left it stranded on a shelf,
Marooned high on the beach.

The village people were celebrating
Their Festival, with boats pulled up high;
No fishing that day, of all days,
Not even in this famine year,
Not on the day of the Festival.

Any other day keen eyes looking
Seawards would have seen the whale—
Villagers streamed down with knives
And mattocks to butcher it,
Many days of feasting for all.

But this day not; the whale remained,
The day grew longer, night fell,
And with night the tide, carrying
The whale back out to sea.
At dawn the beach was empty.

And in that dawn hungry fishermen
Went down to launch their boats,
Other villagers walked to the fields
With empty stomachs, despite the Festival,
The Festival of Plenty, the day before.