Fishermen by Robert Nisbet

The three of them night-fished at Newgale
for a decade or more. They’d bring a flask,
to lace the stretching hours of their watch.

Williams was working in the local bank.
They didn’t talk of “bankers” in those days,
he shuffled people’s daily money, liked that,
but couldn’t stand his manager, his anger,
his face with its sheen of spittle as he cursed,
the temper in his long accusing stare.

Morris had a little corner shop, sold
cigarettes and newspapers. He liked the stir,
the simple trade, his customers. His wife,
a lawyer’s daughter, would have liked
much more, her temper sometimes rising
in rebellion at their days’ humility.

Jones was a teacher, of the more chaotic kind.
A small, well-meaning man, he loved the job,
the dealings and the banter, until the afternoons,
the rising noise. “God’s sake, 3B, shut up!”

Each of them loved the stillness of the nights
at Newgale, the slowness and the certainty
of the tides, the coasting incoming waves,
the hiss as they subsided into sand.
They also loved the sight of a hooked bass,
gasping its last, its eyes bulging, glazing over.



Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet whose work has appeared widely in Britain where he was shortlisted for the Wordsworth Trust Prize in 2017 and in the USA where he has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize