The Fisherman's Wife Speaks
There's not a silver dish left
in all this town.
The fish have vanished now,
all boats sliding into scrap.
We see closed shipyards, clanking empty chains
on documentaries on TV.
Trawlermen congregate outside the bookies
casting about trying to net horses.
The harbour's edge crumbles into the sea;
we are embarrassed, don't walk there any more.
Your father has fierce rows down at the dole,
his muscles deteriorating into loose flab,
his oilskins left hanging on the backdoor peg.
Thumbed tide-tables lose their relevance,
the sea is left to lap and smash as it wants –
we stay indoors muttering.
Instead of Wednesday's shoals of fish
we live on tinned sardines from Portugal
eked out with chips and mushy peas
kidding us it's still the old times.
There's not one silver dish left
in all this town.
Dance to tha' daddy now.
Dance for me.
* Pat Jourdan's latest collection is The Cast Iron Shore from Erbacce Press. Trained as an artist in Liverpool, she has spent many years in Ireland
