Someone takes

They knew Mr Huth fished from the rocks

on Sunday morning.

It gave them an hour of quiet

to pick the lock on the caravan

and turn it inside out

as if they were pirates

searching for the buried treasure

of an old man’s savings.

No-one heard a thing

until Mr Huth returned

and set to shouting the place down.

The cops were called

more to control the old fisherman

than to look for his money.

No-one was sure

how much they stole

because Mr Huth wasn’t saying.

The snarky neighbours joked a few dollars

wasn’t worth the trouble,

and reckoned Mr Huth

should learn what a bank was for.

Manx’s dad

passed a hat around at the Balarang Pub

and everyone put in something

more in respect of Mr Gunn

than in sympathy.

The publican dropped twenty

even though Mr Huth

hardly ever made it to the bay for a drink.

On Sunday afternoon, Manx and I

fished from the rocks at the point

and reeled in eight whiting.

In the evening we knocked on Mr Huth’s van

and left the fish in a bucket of ice on his step.

In our town, when someone takes,

someone gives.