Hand over hand, fishermen hauled cod, haddock,
flattened slippery silver against drying walls.
Below the lichen sea-cliff – a ghost fishing
village. Huts arc around the black pearl cove.
Along this coast every boulder repeats a story:
Kerling implored her husband, out of earshot,
“Don’t leave me stranded at the ocean’s edge.”
The trout bundle on her back slowed her down.
I lose track of mine as the winds pick up.
Witnessing the sun at daybreak, she turned to stone.
The fishermen threw dice of walrus teeth. Snake Eyes.
Last night, by a fire, I lost every round.
Inside the rock, spirits bellow to escape.
Like herds of stallion, waves stampede the shore.
Buffeted by high winds, I hear his shout,
while beneath, shoals of quick fish ghost the depth.
2025