West Coast Fishing by Mel Stacey 2008
 

We have our own Sunset Boulevard here.

Where west coast path snakes by a field for birds.

Look out across the blue, and catch a flash of green,

As they come; laden with gifts from the deep.

A Bass, a Pollock, Mackerel, Wrasse and Crab.

A feast to feed twelve hungry mouths at home.

Along the cliffs, among the crags, birds nest.

They rear three young, safe from voracious gulls.

Their piping cry and darting dance alerts us to their need.

No hook, no line, no rod, no reel.

A sharp persistent beak creates a hole

From which to pluck the flesh; luscious, pearly, soft.

The banquet nobly caught.

Across the deep, time’s measured turn calls back.

Vast yearning hauling. us in each year

Pearl-bordered by the waves, the rope-wrought heart still there.

A glance, a touch, a sigh, a dream.

No bait.  The island’s natural power

Pulls in the catch of friendship:

Companions joyfully found.