The Mackerel
Charcoal bitter evening
on Chesil Beach
where two mackerel
Lie making a silver
scaled cross
on a mound of wet pebbles.
Just caught, their heads
severed
with a scout's knife
they're being baptised
In the frothy hem of a
high
spring tide.
their abandoned bodies
Start to bleed, blood,
congealed
as red-currant jelly
bordering a salty platter.
Only their eyes defy death,
fixing a watery gaze,
from a mother-of-pearl
bed,
On the bearded traitor
who crouches low
behind a striped windbreaker
Cajoling a driftwood fire
to flame to cook
the fish; when a crow flaps
down
From the setting sun
and carries off
the silver mackerel high
To a distant honeycombed
cliff,
leaving the fisherman
lighting a premature lamp.
HEATHER LAWTON
