A shed, six by four, painted,
Landy green, black roof
Local fishmongers
Down by the harbor gates
Battered wooden, fish crates
Smelling of the ocean, the waves,
The spray
Weathered, worn, faded brown
Trawlers name a disappearing outline
A boy in shorts, blond hair
Tugging at his mother’s skirts
Pointing,
Spattered orange dotted flat fish
Flapping, fresh from the boat.
Propped against the side wall
A box of jade, and emerald sea jewels
Eyes frozen in time.
Chalk board hung from open door,
With names, prices , beyond understanding.
To the boy fantastical creatures
A man in a white coat, money rattling in pocket
Scales set on a bench, ready to measure out scales
For the women of the seaside town
All the gossip, the fish, and the stories
From one little shed down by the harbor wall
A boys face mesmerized, by cod
Larger than he, caught on a wall hook
Swift knife movements, and fillets,
Laid on yesterdays newspaper
Bones, and head thrown into a bucket
Large lazy yellow eyed seagull,
Sauntering like a casual thief, eye
On the bucket…
As boy I was lucky to live in a small scottish fishing town, so have vivid memories of trawlers off loading fish, and just outside the harbour a little shed where the fish was sold to the locals...
