Trawler Copyright © Richard Whiting 2010

This boat has trawled the seas
Through weathers like soft hands
Laid upon a lover’s shoulders,
To rough storms meted out
By malevolent gods.

The nets began to bulge;
Each fish, mirror-scaled, a memory.
We hold them up to the light
See the iridescent, reminiscent glow.

Each moment creates an aroma
Seeping across the bay like hunger.
But then, any haul lacks perfection;
A site of sideways-shuffling crabs
And those lobsters best boiled alive
We hide as guilty secrets in the hold.

Lately, the nets seem lighter;
Whether by storm or gentle erosion
They have been breached.
Smaller fry are quitting the scene.

I watch a cormorant flash
And, taking a fleeing fish down whole,
He perches on the bows
Arrogant as a goal-scorer at the away-end;
His wings outstretched;
The air darkens in defeat.

We make for harbour
Where we walk along the wharf,
Amongst those who laugh or hide
Feigning industry beside their catch.

We seek advice from the professionals
Who do not have the twine we need
Or the expertise to fashion a repair.
Grasping for fortifying words, they fail.

We return to the open seas;
The sextant and the compass
Exchange knowing glances.
Our course is set.

Full ahead.
We watch the horizon.
Salt water slides down my face,
The wind straightens my
Free-thinking hair.

Unblinkingly we watch,
Red-eyed like the sunset;
Then, as if through a veil of tears,
The rocks.
Praise-be it’s the rocks;

Those blessed rocks.