Black Rock's waters

There’s a kind of sheen to youth,

Voices like lemon yoghurt,

And baby fat bellies.

There’s a kind of unfazed truth

Too, a gleeful ignorance of things that hurt,

Of fish spines and bees.

Which come soothed away by a vicious voice,

Slipping on soft tones, leaving love filled buoys.

But there’s also a moment that doesn’t leave.

The dried salt on the boards, damp rope

Underneath the rotted planks - out of breath, watching it heave,

Just heave. Cleft with chainmail, rough and gleaming, its pulsing throat,

Shining life's last afterglow. A pyrrhic victory, you look at your prize. 

For the first time, the fish is big enough to see your reflection in its eyes.