The Silver Darlings (After the Wick disaster 1848)

Was that what we called them?
As they slipped between our hands,
from gutting table to salter
to packer to barrel, clogs in time.
We never minded the rising red,
the stink that told you of home.

From what I remember, the day was ordinary,
August heat, and a fleet sea sortie.
set south, on the Lammas tide,
out beyond the bay to the horizon,
a night fall, nets shot – waiting.
Everyone breathed with the wind.

Some did read the signs in the sky –
turned before the angry clouds
chased them back to shore,
For the last time. In the growling gale.
columns of air, walls of water,
before they knew it they were on the rocks.

We watched, spectators sewn together
in hope, willing them back in on wings
and moonlight. One by one, briny gauntlet
ran,wood kissing wood in awkward embrace.
The maths worked out like this, thirty seven gone,
equals sixty three fatherless children,
seventeen widows.
Nobody sails the lammas tide

for fear and superstition.
What have we learnt?
That a small keel will not favour a strong swell,
that fore and aft you must do more, always.
Ninety four over thirty was enough for our small town,
Black Saturday is still a thing.
There is no memorial though,
the sea always made a pact,
to keep hold of the dead.

= Ali Jones

Adornments

Variants of blue fish
Uniformly line the dresser runner
My sister bought for us in
East Africa, some years ago now.
They keep order
All day and night,
A neat school
Side-by-side-by-side,
An ornament to the dresser,
That decorates our bedroom,
Storing ornaments for the body.
But what decorates our souls?
We need loaves along with our fishes,
Humility along with our pride,
Chaos along with the order of
Fish swimming on white linen.

-st

Kill It My Sister

screams at the fish flap
gasp for air on Flamborough’s

Summer warmed stone quay
where moments before
we lobbed our line
into an income of waves.

Smash its brains out. Its what
You’re supposed to do.
You’re scared.

As the fish eyes memorise my face.
You do it then. I say.

and recall our glee.
Caught one! she shouts.

You do it. I say,
as the fish struggles for air.

I caught it, Its your turn,

I remember when we got the reel
talked of bringing a fish
home for tea, for mam and dad.

I throw the fish back.

Coward, she says.

-Paul Brookes

Fish in the Hand

Slippery landlord

doesn’t wear a mask,
thinks the pandemic
can’t touch his fat wallet.
He demands we let him in,
thinks the law is on his side.
Ask Mr. Mayor,
we shout.
Ask Mr. Policeman.
Ask the family next door
whose matriarch died.
See that barricade on the door?
That’s for you Mr. Fish in the Hand.
You aren’t coming inside.

-Susan Richardson

MONOSTICH

Tuna looks brighter in water than on plate

-Jay Gandhi

Bios and links

-Jane Cornwell