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fizz under the current like 

a school of ghost thumbs.

I tie my hook to the end of the line

knot a sinker

and cast into the lapping. 

We feed chicken liver to the sea like 

magicians with handkerchiefs and top-hats.

The sprat suck the bait from the jag but

keep their lips clear from the point.

Limpets climb the concrete columns 

and the day rolls over and breathes out.

Grandad buys us kahawai from the fish’n’chip store and we 

watch the men stumble in their dinghies.

We throw chips out to the gulls

and they catch them mid-air.

My hands are coated in oil and loose on the reel

I am learning 

how to fish

how to let the line run out 

how to be okay with it.