AT THE
END OF THE JETTY
Walk
from the becalmed centre of the town to the strong harbour wind,
down to
the quay and the smell of tar, out onto the jetty to the tall lighthouse
I can
see at night when I am torn from my sleep by unknown sounds,
like the
skin of a fish is ripped off at one tug
after
the head has been cut off with a squelch and thrown away.
Like an
invasion from an unknown planet
sea
wrack lies washed up on the shore, stinking, bluish-black
in
foam-marbled sand between scattered rocks,
a thick
rind of extinguished life, a defeated phalanx
dried
out and mummified by the sun.
Along
the quay and the jetty men are pulling nets up out of the water
and
lowering them again in bails with creaking metal wires,
in an
afternoon fathers teach sons to fish with these nets
which,
domed, like inverted parachutes in single lever racks
are
fixed to the quay or pulled out onto the jetty in light carts.
Small
fish that flap like autumn leaves in the strong wind
are
collected up from the nets and thrown back into the sea,
clusters
of small children play in the sand or on a floating dock,
from
which they launch their boats with paper sails
laden
with hopes of reaching unknown land.
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