Paul Willason Poet Free verse

The Fishing Steps

Still clear and sunlit
are the tanned, weathered faces
of the fisherman,
their bloodshot eyes,
beanies and checkered shirts,
how they
stood hip deep
in their boats 
looking up at a gathered crowd,
the fish arrayed in neat rows
with glistening scales,
caressed, turned 
and splashed with seawater
by reverent hands,
translucent mops
of squid and trays
of crabs whose tormented
writhings rippled beneath
blankets of wet
hessian bags.

I can hear accented
voices yelling out prices
and frenzied seagulls overhead,
a haze of smells
and noise jostling
in a silvered morning,
when all was spliced
and wound into a bright
necklace of wire
from which a dozen 
or more fish hung
to carry home,
a ring of “tommy ruffs”
fit for the pan or to smoke
in an old tea chest
until they became
a sweaty glaze
of amber flesh,
a filet of sunlight 
and good to eat.

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J. Summers February 23, 2023 at 9:17 PM This is very good. Great word choices, no extra padding and the storyline progresses to a logical ending. I like your matter of fact approach to telling the story. John Paul Willason February 24, 2023 at 3:00 AM Thankyou John for the very positive comments. Pleased that it found resonance, the poem recalls imagery that is still very much alive in my mind. For me it was a joy to write and your encouragement makes it even better. Regards.