Fisherman
After a long, dreich day in the firth – soaked gansey, torn gloves, a few sorry mackerel dangling
from the lines – I hauled up on the beach. Thick smell of wrack. Bird cries. Night.
I lit a kerosene lamp, stood at the sea’s edge, and threw a pebble into the dark. Waves
poured over the skerries and I thought of broken crates, creel buoys, bits and pieces of sailcloth –things a child might play with – coming in on the tide; how everything we do, or dream, returns
to these rainy, gull-haunted shores.
And in the lamp’s flickering yellow light, I prayed.
Chris Powici lives in Perthshire where he writes poems, essays and occasional flash fictions. His latest poetry collection is Look, Breathe (Red Squirrel Press).