Alan: Why does the moon still tug so on our hearts and spirits, even now, when it has long since lost its innocence?
is just the moon:
a lump of mud
thrown up, anciently,
stuck to our sky;
to be claimed,
So there you are
into wavering smears
and bands of mist –
white – above
of the season's
first hard frost.
Still, despite all, shining
as you fade
into white-tinged spruces.
Still the moon.
Ah, the moon.
Nancy: The Haddock, the Herring, the Cod . . . what happens to the fishermen when the fish are gone?
The Catch Of The Day
Nothing comes up in the nets.
The catch of the day is blame.
They carve it up at the fish plants.
They pack it in ice and ship it
abroad; they display it to the relevant
agencies; they serve it up to the
biologists. The women dress it
with bitter words and rattle
their forks across the empty plates.
The men purse their mouths
and spit the bones of it like
poisoned darts. When they tire
of mouthing stale blame they take
the boats out and get what they
expected; nothing comes up in the
nets. Mumbling grumbling heartsick
confused they build fires on the
shingle and barbecue the new
catch of blame. Nothing comes
up in the nets, no love, no new
roof, no hockey skates, no raffle
tickets, no Easter ham, none of the
old joy, when the nets come up
There’s no paint for the windburned
houses; the women clatter their
cups and saucers; the men
take their needles and knit tiny nets
just in case.