He paused a moment, resting aching limbs,
And leaning on his oars, breathed morning air.
A fruitless night, no catch, not one small fish
Lay in the floating nets, empty and bare.
Through fragile, hazy, early morning mist
On distant shore, one figure stood alone
And called ‘Success? What have you caught this night?’
A shake of head, failed empty hands were shown:
‘Not one.’ ‘Go, throw your nets out on the right’.
Straightway, the rush and pull of drawing swell,
A mighty catch of fish swirled in the net
‘It is the Lord, my Lord’ - now all is well.
The aching limbs. the weariness was gone
And Peter, with archetypal, fervent art
Was in the water, racing for the shore.
Where stood the One he loved with all his heart.
Dark days of hopelessness, deep pain and gloom,
The mem’ry of betrayal, loss and fear.
Black throbbing empty sorrow of the heart
Were still to Peter very very near.
But drawing closer to His risen Lord!
The darkness of the recent anguished days
Evaporated in the morning air,
As once again he gazed upon Christ’s face.
A smell of woodsmoke on the seashore’s breeze
Warm bread and luscious tang of fresh baked fish
Provided by such loving tender care
A mem’rable and treasured breakfast dish.
Dawn breakfast, shared out on the open shore,
Remarkable and cherished precious morn.
Where darkness was replaced by living light,
Love reaffirmed, and life’s commission born.
A feast, that outdoor breakfast years ago,
Place of forgiveness, restoration, bliss,
And those who’ve walked a path as Peter walked
Will know the joy of feasting such as this.
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