A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
from slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sight-seeing sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet will trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
for slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
No more babies to make.
We're all done my wife says.
Get the scissors.
We have 3 of our own
All under 5,
4 total.
Why look so nostalgic towards babies
Tinier than my 11 month old?
The kid's truck-sized,
Like wielding slabs of marble about.
We're done,
He's heavy,
We're out.
It's just so terminating.
The era is over.
Watch the garden grow
With the ones we have.
Our family is finished.
Why am I sad about this?
Because they allow babies in taprooms
With a sign above that says...
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