The trawl of unquiet mind drops astern <br /> <br />Great lucid streamers bar the sky ahead <br />(bifurcated banners at a tourney) <br />light alchemizes the brass on the bridge <br />into sallow gold <br /> now the short northern <br />autumn day closes quickly <br /> <br /> the thin coast <br />(of grey Norway is it, or of Russia?) <br />distinguished only as a formal change <br />in the pattern of clouds on our port side <br /> <br />on the deck the strung lights illuminate no <br />movement but the sullen swill of water <br />in the washer, but the unnatural way <br />dead starfish and disregarded dabs swim <br />in the strict seas surging through the bilges <br />and out. A fishgut hangs like a hank of <br />hair from the iron grill in a pound board <br /> <br />brighter now that the sun, the fishfinder's <br />green bleep catches the skipper's intentness <br /> <br />and the trawl is down, is out, is catching!<br /><br />BS Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/evening-barents-sea/
