The Moon \ The Catch Of The Day

Alan: Why does the moon still tug so on our hearts and spirits, even now, when it has long since lost its innocence?

The Moon

The moon

is just the moon:

a lump of mud

thrown up, anciently,

stuck to our sky;

real estate

to be claimed,

tramped on;

poet's bane.

So there you are

sinking, full,

into wavering smears

and bands of mist –

shell-pink, shell-gray,

white – above

white fields

of the season's

first hard frost.

Still, despite all, shining

as you fade

and settle

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

empty.

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.