The Fisherman

The crying child wipes his nose on his mother’s grimy skirt which she had tried to wash this morning, but the ingrained dirt from the pulpy alluvium has permanently stained it russet-brown. She no longer noticed the malodour of the stagnant pool in the sluggish flowing river. She lights the cooking fire under the water bowl and has the handful of rice at the ready to add to the steaming basket. At least they would be eating fish tonight that her husband has caught. sun at offing smarts eyes of lone man standing in a coracle his dejected silhouette belies his inner resolve