Fishing means both of us crying,
me and my son who’s only five,
both sad because the hook has pierced
the slimy cheek of the small sprat,
that looks with one eye where it lived
and one into my soul that dies,
it knows that all is lost. Sweet life.
My eyes half closed I free the fish
and feel the flesh reluctantly
let go of metal. Hope returns.
Son puts it back into the sea
where in surprise it swims away.
Blood on our hands we are relieved.
(Son held his breath accordantly.)
Another male is passing by,
son waves the angle with bravour.
“We caught a fish!” And let it go,
but I won’t tell. We buy some fish
and chips for home, no eyes are seen,
no questions asked. He takes my hand.
We let a sprat go well mature.