by Lynn White
The wall ran all along one side of the bay,
steps up from the port at one end,
down to the beach at the other.
I climbed up the steps
and looked over.
So many fish.
Swirling silver moons in a day blue sky.
A net would have scooped them up
and broken with the weight.
The fishermen were there with their rods set up,
like the fish almost touching,
so many and so close,
parallel black lines against the sky
like a blueprint for lunch provision.
I walked down the steps to the beach.
Few people were there so early.
Morning was the fisherman’s time
not the sunbather’s.
I went back along the wall
when the fishermen were packing up,
heading home for lunch.
Carrying their fish,
it was a delusion
they would eat fish for dinner.
Not those fish, anyway.
All were returned to the sea.
Such is the sport of the fisherman.
First published in Scarlet Leaf Review (January 2018)
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The fishermen were in Getxo near Bilbao, Spain. I was there about 2016.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy, and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud “War Poetry for Today” competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications, including Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal, and So It Goes. Find Lynn at lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and on Facebook.