Grandma’s lace doilies scattered throughout a breathing Daliesque scene.
Bubble bath overflowing onto a pebble beach
from a sea roaring
as a crowd when the home team scores
Sky split by a line of grey cloud
clear blue on one side
aqua on the other
and there, over there in the west,
a hint of pink-tinged grey.
Do the fish bleed?
shelters and rods
line the shore
headlamps dotting the pitch black night
as bait is attached to hooks
which wait their turn
to lure a catch.
“It’s a competition,” he tells me.
“£10 in, the fisher who scores
It’s a catch and release game
the fish being too small to fry
each fisher shows the baby to the fisher next door
yes indeed, a fish was caught on that one’s line,
reeled in and displayed,
then tossed back to sea
(complete with what must be
a very sore throat.)