Go out.
He enters the room,
The Cabinet is in.
Tasting the air in stereo
He samples the doppler scent of
Reverberation;
The conversation thus far
Is in need of urgent fixing.

Come in.
The mackerel run late June
But first he licks the gut
Then he pulls the knot
As too much friction
Burns brittle the line,
Even anchored bait can
Snap free from the cast.

Open the gate and
Cast.

The shoal's head turns
The snake talks back
The best time to go
Is when tide gives up the low
For the beach will shrink as the
Room fills up with ink
But the mackerel come in closer,
Follow the spinner through high water.

High noon and
The eyelets have it.
The line fed through now spirals,
The reel snaps into action and
The rod snags, bends and sanctions
The spinner's new disciple-
Hooked through the mouth and nostril,
His taste and smell abandoned
His tiger marks and petrol colours
Condone the motion one vote further.




His gills open,
Promised saltwater high rank.
His gills close,
Respect and praise and thanks.
His mouth opens and closes,
But only silent Vowels are mouthed.
His mouth opens up
Lets the panic finally out
There are rumours and some stories
That there's Consonants about.

He cannot close his eyes,
No lids to seal demise
In death he sees some lie,
His gills pump one last time
He finally sees the line,
The gut and knot entwined-

'The hook, the barb aren't mine.
The spinner was a sign.
That my head, tail and guts make
A healthy seagull's lunch and
With my troubles,
Others dine.'�

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