The Lonely Fisherman

At cockcrow, I head down to the river, forsaking my little log cabin situated in the dense forest till dusk, which was strongly built by my endemic hands. I have no compulsion for rods and hooks, no bait. I have my ways. I be sincerely unwanted at the riverside. Others be fearful of my gruff, contemptible guise and demeanour. Fearful that I'd snipe their catch or peck their lunch. Incomprehensible! Hence, I descend the forested hill on which I dwell in the purpose of pilfering the village of food. I plead the inhabitants for at least a bantam amount of vittles but it is nearabout in vain. All individuals barring an altruistic gardener be scornful towards me. He understands my plight as well as harking what myself alleges. He feeds me his residual edibles. It's his generosity that keeps me alive. When I be passing the villagers shun me and ensconce me from their young'uns. When I be nigh to them I be able to hear mutterings under breath: "Undesirable," "Accursed tramp," and an occasional"Eavesdropper!" That's what they entitle me but I possess a name. I did not merely crawl up out of the loam and come into existence. I did not start off as an abominable creature spawned on the riverbed (some consider I presently be just that). I be correctly known as Grey, I be named Heron Grey. By Sean Martin-Byrne