I fizz a little, drift
A little in this
Mist.
Every love's coincidental
If it's ending with a kiss.
I don't really miss
The burning and the bleeding of my
Wrist.
But my fist holds much bliss.
I am swift and too brisk.
I am...
Holding many myths
And I spit 'em from lips that
Stutter too quick.
Yet, mumble when ****** and
They only take trips when
Challenged by risk.
So, I fumble with trouble.
Guess I like it like this.

Running amok black bellies of hail-clouds
divest their hard cargo
on near-ready harvest and thunder claps
in spiteful applause.

Scudding sails of racing white galleons
arrive to the rescue
and change weather's position as quiet
breaches gale's disorder.

Setting the sun throws magenta feathers
across dark horizon
and to settle the issue parades jade tints
as the landscape transforms.

Waiting small boats plod homewards in
fish-laden formation
while wives run to stoke hot-kettled fires
of ready bath water.

Lighting a pathway half-moon winks as
heavier catches in
hauled nets silver the harbour and men
start night's final performance.

Sating hunger with coming and going
sow-and-reap women know
the meaning of sharing male labour in
scaling and salting chores.

Fisher-folks' world begins and ends
with the vagaries and quirks of weather.

all that is known
clumped into masses
the reality perceived behind
angular strenuous bones

take the flesh, a living flesh
warm under a summer heat
and flushed with that of stipend excitement
the flesh, all perceived before  

and if you strike flesh
you will eventually strike bone