I meant to write a story, something about a child and a cliff,
how God made a fish masquerade as a bird. Need and want.
I want to taste salt in oil, have blubber slide down my gullet.
I need to walk and keep their chattering beaks to my right
and the water to my left, not want their silence or need their meat.
That was never the tale. It was about the haze of childhood,
fragments of consciousness, like a boat cutting through sea-mist.
“Now listen, son,” said James Stewart, “hold on”, as the wash
came at them and a foghorn told them they were alive.
That was it, the feeling of life, of nourishment after a fast.
I fasted of words, didn’t speak or put pen to page.
Broken. Words came scattered, shattered and stuttered,
they repeated recorded conversation, half-caught
gasps of shock, of her son being framed by the pigs,
squealing like a boar dragged from the river, hook in its throat.
If it came from amongst fish then it must be a fish, so says the priest.
Serve it with dill, peppery piss-flower, liver of herbage.
He climbed down the cliff, every step was his future fall foretold,
found good grips between wet rocks, brushed a hand against just opened
eggs, found that last puffin. Stayed there, hungry, watchful and weak.