Here's a little bit of Anglo Saxon alliterative verse…
Trying out the new gear
I cast my line very carefully over beach clutter, way out past the kelp line.
Squid tied securely on shiny hook, the bait plops daintily onto the water.
Then slinks and sinks and slithers below. The still pewter sea swallows it whole.
I screw the silver cup slowly off my thermos flask; percolated coffee smells so sensual and rich.
The rod is resting against a rewarewa log. The line shivers in anticipation, I check the tension
and my peaceless mind plays games while I pour a generous measure of the Niuginean coffee.
Strike! The line screams out, streaming ocean-wards. I lurch for control as the rod bends double.
In seconds I surmise I’ve hooked a shark. The rod twangs from its log, snakes across the sand.
I run after rod and reel down the beach, dive desperately to catch the handle
But to precious little purpose as the rig plunges into the sea, leaves a faint V-wake behind.
My new tackle is taken and I shed a tear. I only bought the things a week ago.
Then fifty yards from the foreshore a fin appears and a jagged mouth grinning,
seems unfazed by the filament now floating from a corner of that terrible mouth,
or the fine-honed suicide hook which is hanging from its rubbery lower lip.
He dives splashing, dragging my gear to the depths. But I count my Piscean loss far more keenly.
* John
Irvine is a regular IS&T contributor – and the editor of the Anomalous Appetites anthology.
