SILVER

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I remember mornings down by the harbour, not so long ago: the squealing of winches, jibs swinging their shimmering loads on to the quay: a silver hoard of herring (lying there, open-mouthed, staring at the land.) until: the lightning flash of the fisher-lassies’ gutting blades; their salty songs and tales; bubbling laughter; innards scattered back to the sea  -and the gulls, the ever screaming gulls (snowstorm on a summer’s day) drowning even the winches skirling, to bloody their beaks.

Boats rising, and falling.  Contentment!

Gone!

Nothing here now but rusty jibs, broken creels, and two boats sunk in the sand.

The songs and laughter carried out to sea long ago.

A tattered net hangs its grid against the sky, where occasional gulls move from square to square, in a slow game of draughts.

old men
gaze seawards  -
glitter in their eyes