Portrait of a Day
If I could paint the picture,
I would show you:
An hour past sunset,
the red path of the lighthouse to the north,
jagged line of the islands to the south,
the open sea beyond,
us between.
One small boat, suspended in the narrow margin.
Last trap to haul for the day,
last boat out.
Mick has one hand on the wheel,
hat tipped back,
face rough from the wind offshore,
eyes bright like the sparks of light
passed from wave to wave, have built up inside,
shining back, as the shadows reach for us,
almost on tiptoes,
feeling for when.
The moment the bottom below us
says, now, and here.
His other hand rests on the trap
poised on the lip of the washboard.
She’s an old trap,
oak laths stained with salt and weed,
worm eaten,
bright patches here and there, softwood scraps,
holding her together,
mesh heads darned where they have worn.
The rope is thick with seaweed and slime,
knotted where it has frayed.
Mick’s hand rests easy on her,
blue cotton gloves with the cuffs rolled back,
arms bare despite the November chill.
I’m at the plug box, banding lobsters.
Six counters in this trap.
Last trap in the string,
last trap of the day.
Mick let her hang a moment from the davy,
before he swung her aboard.
“She’s old,” he said.
“But she can still fish.”
And we thought about that a moment;
oilcoats tapping against the cabin,
slop of the bilge below,
rocking in our wake, before getting on with the work.
And now we’re paused,
all of us
boat, trap, men,
the light itself,
hanging in the moment
waiting to be tipped.
Mick’s rough hand holding it all in balance
resting, almost reverent, on the trap.
If I could paint it so you could see
I would show you this
and maybe, then, you would know.
