Here is Danda with a dead fish,
this boy has too many limbs it seems,
more spindles than his running stitch can handle,
in from the green-flax sea-line with bare legs
and his knees clacking, chattering Danda
with a dead fish, what it is and whether fresh
or not they’ll pass it over, won’t know,
won’t eat it she says, though you my dearie
Danda can have it for your supper, how
she teases, his big mother, navvie-built
to be a father; where do all the men go
when they have begot.
Don’t look so starving Danda you
little darling, who packs his food away
like a navvie and is growing all slick
and silvery and smells kippery, he’s been
hull-picking with fishermen, his father was
one of them, nets going mouldy, Danda
gets moods of the sea, and goose-bumps
can’t be scraped off, he’ll get them again
on the shore, he lives there looking for
the man in him, they give
tea and talk, slap him on the shoulder,
call him fishy.
Danda’s jumper unravelling, coming out
in sympathy, his nose is never cleanly,
dripping brine all the time, scales under
his nails, always flexing, finding, bringing
in, a wind slaps hard on him singing up and
down his ribs, Danda has no colour
except of grey, the colour of
the day he lost his fiery ginger dadda
to the sea, except, his dadda really went away
with a woman not his mother;
never mind our Danda, pass it over
have your supper.
1989