Piper

On a charcoal day off Hendricks Head,
among the rollers from an offshore ocean storm,
a solitary lobsterman pulls his pots,
one after another.

He grabs a buoy with the hook,
throws the line on the winch,
hauls the gilded cage to the surface
for its green golden quarry.

As the lobsterman cleans his gear,
claiming his prizes and resetting the traps,
the gulls flap over to see what might not be wanted,
what treasures might be gleaned from the discards.

The lobsterman wears wool not motley;
he has no flute but the whine of the winch
backed by the motor’s mutter,
but the seabirds come to the call nonetheless.

They know him, and as they take possession
they circle and squabble for the choicest spots -
a favored one takes station on the bow,
another squats on the outboard.

And as the tidbits fly they rise,
competing for attention and position,
so that by purpose or by chance
the bravest one will get the morsel.

The lobsterman seems to pay no attention,
but he must know that these are his birds;
perhaps he keeps aside some delicacy
for that one follower who hangs the furthest back …

  - O Ceallaigh

Copyright © 2006 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.

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