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.