POEM TITLE
Sea-larking
POEM
Sea-Larking
Fishing the bay of blackness on sea, I snagged a thing in my net. The waves parted in shame.
Bare as a tale, I imagined her mine. Carried her from the sea’s harm. Two moon eyes stared.
A minute of breaths. She gave up that grey mouth. Woman enough for me. We lay near as foxes.
She’d never smelt a bed. Twitched to sleep. The seal-coat took time to burn. Lugged her
to church come dawn. Twine for the rings. Vicar dabbed that heathen nose, said she had
no soul to speak of, but a pearl’s salt skin. Soon, she waddled loaf-bellied. Loved me in-and-out.
Still, she’d not touch fish, howled when I showed her the lobster pot. Clapping if seals flashed
on the telly. When leaving, I locked the door by design. The cottage neater on my return.
A brief labour. She made no sound. Out swam baby. It barked with an animal’s tongue.
Then, at Epiphany, she asked soft about that old skin of hers. An ear of questions.
Silence sat between the plates at tea. Nothing that I knew of pleased. When she dropped
the child into the sea, I combed the shore. Hours sinking. What was left? Policemen pelting
questions. We wore black clothes and sad expressions. The curtains started sniffing,
fishwives baring cotton claws, their men cock-eyed. I shaved her brazen hair. The next one
born in spring. A little lad with whiskers. They spoke in clicks. No language I’d heard of.
Stopped when I walked in. Worship the wife, she spoils like butter. Enough. Poured salt
in the bath. We crouched, her in the water, me on the edge. She’d not bend. I cleaned
my baithooks. On the boat, I stir the ocean with the ashes. Then throw my net out again.POEM TITLE
Sea-larking
POEM
Sea-Larking
Fishing the bay of blackness on sea, I snagged a thing in my net. The waves parted in shame.
Bare as a tale, I imagined her mine. Carried her from the sea’s harm. Two moon eyes stared.
A minute of breaths. She gave up that grey mouth. Woman enough for me. We lay near as foxes.
She’d never smelt a bed. Twitched to sleep. The seal-coat took time to burn. Lugged her
to church come dawn. Twine for the rings. Vicar dabbed that heathen nose, said she had
no soul to speak of, but a pearl’s salt skin. Soon, she waddled loaf-bellied. Loved me in-and-out.
Still, she’d not touch fish, howled when I showed her the lobster pot. Clapping if seals flashed
on the telly. When leaving, I locked the door by design. The cottage neater on my return.
A brief labour. She made no sound. Out swam baby. It barked with an animal’s tongue.
Then, at Epiphany, she asked soft about that old skin of hers. An ear of questions.
Silence sat between the plates at tea. Nothing that I knew of pleased. When she dropped
the child into the sea, I combed the shore. Hours sinking. What was left? Policemen pelting
questions. We wore black clothes and sad expressions. The curtains started sniffing,
fishwives baring cotton claws, their men cock-eyed. I shaved her brazen hair. The next one
born in spring. A little lad with whiskers. They spoke in clicks. No language I’d heard of.
Stopped when I walked in. Worship the wife, she spoils like butter. Enough. Poured salt
in the bath. We crouched, her in the water, me on the edge. She’d not bend. I cleaned
my baithooks. On the boat, I stir the ocean with the ashes. Then throw my net out again