ABOLONE FISHING
John walked out
on ankle-high surf
babbling on the reef
finding its way
through the sharp rocky surface
I followed behind
nervous in my old tennis shoes
walking gingerly
tyre lever in hand
hunting for abalone.
John knows how. He’d been
around the world
working on merchant ships
telling tales of the high seas
and the low dives in port cities.
I’d been in boarding school
for much of his travels,
anchored to declining verbs
and translating Caesar.
He told us about the tough whores
of Marseilles while I was
taking a Burmese girl from
a Catholic boarding school
for a hamburger and coffee.
“Here you go, here’s some,”
as he bent to the reef
hacking at stones as
the sun glittered off
the Indian Ocean.
- 17/08/2022
