from ROSEMARIES: A VERSE SEQUENCE
1976, revised 2007

Learning to Fish

Taken out in the boat.
Oars in the air, men pause.
Eyes like the land remote.
No one knew where I was.

Among strangers. Oilskin
around me, at the prow.
Brought along on a whim.
Can’t be left behind now.
 
Sky and sea much the same
in my mind. Sight a shark.
Spray falls on me like rain.
Waves ploughed through throw up dark

wrinkled weeds, underneath
an island once. A seal,
seagulls, and the men speak
of something there, and feel
 
for sprats over the side,
pulling the oars in,
drifting, the sea is quiet.
Shoals break like stones that skim.

I am told what to do
when the lines come alive -
to finger the throats through
and unhook with a knife.
 
Bright fish aboard are lobbed
that hardly took the bait
before they twist (my job)
and turn into deadweight.
 
Rowing back with the tide
forgot I was a joke,
and took my place with pride
beside the men; they spoke

confidingly of trips
in the past, trawlers rammed
beyond the bay, steam ships
on the skyline becalmed.

Called in at Roberts Cove,
the first headland we hit;
lighting a primus stove,
put freak fish on the spit.

And as darkness came down
we feasted on seabream.
And heard the foghorn sound.
Returning home in a dream.

Learning to be Saved

Thrown in at the deep end
to be life-saved for practice,
dragged out, and made to bend
backwards. Seniors in tracksuits

massage the heart, healthy clouts
on pigeon-chests, while elbows
work water up, turned about
on flat of face. Back in clothes

the boy who had a close shave
is now among the elect,
and can muster up a brave
face; he will not be the next.

The Ropes

Putting down a tent, they stayed
all summer, threw up their jobs,
lived from the sea; though farm raids
for chickens were spoken of;

after dark they could be seen
in the vegetable patch
scouring the ground out for greens
or by day selling a catch

to trippers on the main strand
who came down in their busloads
for a paddle and a tan,
returning home with sore throats;

or more often on the cliff
doing nothing; and from the path
bypassers could see a whiff
of pipesmoke or hear a laugh -

hard men all. Boys hung around
their armycamp; when it rained,
although it was out of bounds,
we knew the ropes, and remained

stragglers to admire the life
free from clocks and table-meals
and bedtimes. With a penknife
they put us to do the peels.

Once a camper flashed a note.
The leader took it from him,
and with a gesture remote,
tore it up into the wind.