My father and uncle were six years old when they first
went out with the boats, and learned seamanship on the Bustio.
The captains of the time were tough,

on stormy days set to raise a fist and stare down God,
"If you've got a beard on your face, come on in!"
Ready to threaten Heaven, that kind.

When they were boys, the four oldest had to take turns
going to Mass: only the one suit in the house.
One would come back from church,

take off the suit, hand it on to the next
and that's how they went to Mass,
each at his own hour, each in his own shoes.

When we were kids, on the longest jetty in port,
the day Dad came in from sea we would wait and wait,
watching out to the west. Even if in the beginning

we all saw nothing at all, soon
someone glimpsed off there on the horizon cloud
a black dot, which slowly turned into a boat on the sea.

At the end of an hour the boat reached the jetty
and wheeled before us to enter the port.
Dad waved his hand in greeting.

As the boat passed by, we'd race
to where they were about to moor it.
Even when Dad was in bed at the last,

he was singing the praises of life,
saying the day has to be lived. The moment
you start to worry, life escapes you.

And invariably: Listen up, you-all, you've got to
head farther north, the net doesn't have to go out
where you know for sure the fish are,

you've got to search way off there,
not settle for what you have.
"Death shall have no dominion,"

wrote Dylan Thomas, but it wins
a dominion now and again,
and Dad's life ended that way, too,

heading way off to the west
a boat gotten lost on the clouds' edge,
sketching its reminders in its wake.

Translations into English: Elizabeth Macklin