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David Browne

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Coelacanth

‘Poetry is like fish: if it’s fresh, it’s good; if it’s stale, it’s bad, and if you’re not certain try it on the cat’ - Osbert Sitwell

The night the fish was born, Christmas, my birthday and the summer solstice fell in June.

The air was heavy and we were the midges of curiosity, daring to fly close to the fire.

The Laureate talked of modern sirens, cliffs climbed naked,
Devon wreckers looking for bullion.
‘But what do you look for in new poetry?’ I asked.
‘Is it fish?
Is it fresh fish?’

‘Hmmm, you may have something there’,
he answered uncertainly.

And so the fish was born, and swam across the mudflats.
At times it wriggled, trying to hide beneath the reeds,

but, eventually, with the uncertain strength of my line,
I landed it on a piece of tree which had laid down its life for art.

Now - the eye of the fish looks up accusingly and asks with the inso1ence of sacrifice,

‘Am I fresh?
Am I food for the cat?
Was I born for nothing?’

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