At high tide the boats bring the nets to

the narrow turn in the River Taf. Stretch them

across the channel like a quiet wall, and wait.

Wait for water to turn ’round at the head of the Towy

and run back to the Celtic Sea-

As the tide goes back past the Green Banks of Laugharne,

only the lucky or streetsmart fish escape the nets,

caught in the current and too weak to turn

and wiggle away. And everything is caught in the jail of tides.

 

In the town, the ebb of city noise has

reached deaf ears and the nets of business, crucifix, and busy

minds have stretched their cross-stitch web across

the road to the human heart. Blocking the path.

Bringing bad blood to what was the simple oxygen

in breath, now choking on fumes.

To what was the health of the out-of-doors

now locked up in rooms –

 

The great angler said, “I am the fisher of men.” And

the great wrangler came behind with his black nets

and his coracles of gluttony and greed, blocking the

way back to the sea. To homes and

loved ones. And life that was free.

 

At low tide the River Taf is asleep

with no memory of tides. Of stolen fish.

Or tomorrow’s back net of dreams. Only the

crow and the curlew walk on the soft sand

where the breathing of cockles trace the history of boats called home.

Boats that have taken beauty in back nets

out and away from the bay. Out of the long-reach of children.

And the work that allows them to stay.