Waiting

At North Shield quay, aged twelve, fishing the pier. Waiting. Morning with eager gulls circling, As boats set sail brightly with a firm steer, A distancing horizon unfurling. Brittle browns and encrusted pools below, Waiting. The sudden shock of precious fish; Dreaming silver breaks the dull dirty flow; Hiding a delicacy-a prized dish. Day drags into night. I’m the very last With the foul stench of the filleting swill. Just one more hour. One more longing caste. The sluggish tide now closer, swelling still. Waiting. Beyond dreams. Waiting beyond hope. Compulsively. Always trying to cope.