Evening: Barents Sea

The trawl of unquiet mind drops astern

Great lucid streamers bar the sky ahead

(bifurcated banners at a tourney)

light alchemizes the brass on the bridge

into sallow gold

          now the short northern

autumn day closes quickly

                    the thin coast

(of grey Norway is it, or of Russia?)

distinguished only as a formal change

in the pattern of clouds on our port side

on the deck the strung lights illuminate no

movement but the sullen swill of water

in the washer, but the unnatural way

dead starfish and disregarded dabs swim

in the strict seas surging through the bilges

and out. A fishgut hangs like a hank of

hair from the iron grill in a pound board

brighter now that the sun, the fishfinder's

green bleep catches the skipper's intentness

and the trawl is down, is out, is catching!