The Gutting Sheds


Gutting sheds glow golden, tunnels piercing dark

A Mothers hands to gouge and tear.

Kerbstones glinting silver scales.

A Schoolboys’ shoes, fish-blood stained.


The men a-bed still sailing free.

Their Land-legs buckled, twisted up.

Dreaming fathoms under Seas

So drowned they are by their own cup.


And years from then I am here now,

Becalmed inside these memories.

The streets are clean, unchanged somehow

by all that hangs upon the breeze.