On the rocks, close to the sea,
gazing out, day and night
at the island,
is a memorial cross.
Here, a fisherman stood
with his rod,
a son, a brother, a father,
out for a night's
innocuous pleasure,
some time for him,
some time to think,
be calm,
steady himself.
Then the big wave,
lost balance,
pull on the rod,
everything together,
everything quickly,
and the fall,
sharp rocks
soft skin
the nowhere-to-catch-hold-of
everything and nothing
street light water moon water mother
the sea inside
the rush the push.
The black.
The bait box still
on the rock.

Dawn Gorman
(first published in Poetry South, Issue 5)