Jennifer Copley
Fisherman
The thought of him drowning to death,
or falling, a cracked rib piercing,
makes me bully him,
hide his old Guernsey and boots.
If I could, I’d follow the wake of his boat
like a jumping porpoise.
He sets out his gear,
checks the engine and nets,
pulls on his fish-stinking duffel-coat.
Gulls fly above us
on glittering routes of decay
as I grasp his ninety-year-old shoulder;
prayers curling out of my mouth,
useless as daughters.
Page(s) 5
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- Lamport Court
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- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
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- Ugly Tree, The
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- Yellow Crane, The