This then, is the age of the fishmonger not the fisherman -
his cap tipped as a sergeant's, unsteady on his quiffed head
as he sizes up punters, measuring their movements.

He reaches for a carp as easily as you or I
might dip our hand into a bucket of apples,
feels for the fish, his ingown nail smarting in the salty water,

and lifts it out, understanding as only he can,
the foil disc of the silver eye, the weight of the blade,
the engine-stroke of his heart, finely tuned to this cruel kindness.

Understanding as only he can, the spot between the knuckles
where a nail might enter as if through butter,
how to slice flesh as others cut celery,

how to pare his speech as he might men
were he hurt and pushed to fight.
But like a tree hit by lightning, there is no healing bark

about his struck heart and the wood at the trunk's centre
pulses and gasps for growth like a fish
struggling for its last breath as if biting the air for water.