Kenneth C. Steven
Fish Suppers
After our summer holiday
When all that was left of the Hebrides
Was sand in our shoes
We went home for a fish supper.
Inside the shop Italian rattled about the walls
Quicker than gunfire.
They slapped fish down into a sputtering of batter
Raked sparkling chips from a basin in hell.
Those suppers were parcelled in newsprint.
Their hot salty bundles tempted me
All the way back through the dark
Till we broke open their golden crackle.
Page(s) 64
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