Here is a black and silver treasure brought to us today from the Gaeltacht – where the Gaelic is the common tongue – by our poet Mary L Walsh, on Day 657 of the daily poems.
Mackerel fishing in the Gaeltacht
Shrieks as our quarry is scooped up.
Our dresses tucked into our knickers.
Barefooted afternoon mariners,
Silvered scales on flashing barbs
From the murky waters of the bay.
Multicoloured pails.
Our hands dip into
The darting black and silver murmuration of sprats
That weaves its way around our frozen toes.
Once filled, the pail is taken, held high
In hands wet with salt
Out onto the grainy sands where a bigger
Bucket waits to gather in the fishy harvest.
We wait. he water turns black with mackerel,
The boys and men on the pier cast their lines,
Pulling out mackerel that jump and twist on hooks
And lures, and are whipped off the line into buckets ready
With salt water.
The gulls keening, keening, swooping, wheeling all the while as
The fish are gutted, their innards
thrown into the bay, food for the crabs in a bloody splash.
In the kitchen the sprats swim again, oat-coated,
Their new sea, a patterned plate,
Their new seabed,
crusty bread and thick butter.
Mary L Walsh
shortlisted for the Sean Dunne Poetry Prize 2024, Waterford.