' Irish Sea Fishing After The Storm

Bite of the sea on an August night
from a nascent dark billow haunting

obsidian black- all eye's to the wind
as quelling clouds are overcome,

whisked away by the thrust of Storm
that rip the tide, and cap the waves

in foaming white, while the Sea Witch
laughs herself to death, serving well-

to morning next when the seagulls fly,
and the fishermen's reels keeps turning-

faster and faster and faster, Aye, mates;
for tonight there be a cornucopia

of the finest, cleanest mercury, and,
the ships most eloquent crystal mugs,

to be hoisted to sea-salted lips,
for the Guinness- their truest love.


by Frank James Ryan Jr (FjR)

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