A Lonely Boy and a Fisherman

There’s always one kid
hanging round the block
alone

a lost member of the pack

You know the one I mean
a bit ragged
but cheerful and chatty enough

When you were his age
you’d take what he said
with a pinch of salt
and you were too busy to be the ‘first friend’

When you’re older and grown up
you wonder
where the parents are?
you wonder why
there aren’t other children to play with?

I saw one such boy
just the other day

I was on the rocks
watching the sea lap my feet
watching the fish swim at things
only they can see

A bloke was sat fishing at the other end of the pile
and this boy
came rambling between us

He must have been about eight
or nine
he didn’t have too much in the way of clothes
hand-me-downs thrown together
and his brown hair
needed a cut
which gave his face
a look ahead of his years

He spent most of the afternoon
knocking around the nooks
and crannies
turning over washed up junk
finding bits of old bait for the fisherman

The sun felt good on my face
the cool sea breeze cleansed
my bare chest

I’ve always loved sitting
and staring out
at the horizon
it offers something no other view
in this life
can lend

As some of the ships were returning
I was thinking about calling it a day
by this time
the boy had found some flint
managed to strike up
a conversation with the fisherman

The boy was full of questions
and the fisherman
puffed out plumes of smoke for answers

I could tell he was a bit bothered
by the boy
but he was a gent
and let him carry on all the same

At one point the fisherman got a bite
pulled in a decent fish
the boy sheepishly asked
if he could help
hold the rod

to my
- and the boy’s surprise
the fisherman said ‘yes’

in his excitement
the boy slipped as he scrambled
disappearing momentarily

but he was up in a flash
balancing on the sloping bolder
nothing dampening
his enthusiasm
(although the smile was slightly dimmed by the sting)

Afterwards
the fisherman told the boy
he’d catch him a crab
and I watched as they both bent their heads
into dark dips
and overhangs

I was fiddling with my shirt
as the fisherman came past
off to grab something from his pack

I looked for the boy
he was staring at me

he called out
and I called back

I asked him
what was in the tin he held

“little fish” came the reply

“Did you catch them?” I asked

“No, he did” pointing at the fisherman

Then a pause
the boy’s tiny face full of thought
grubby
and
pensive

and then he said it
as clean and clear as kids do
“He’s not my Dad”

I said nothing

turned my face back to the boats
back to the blue
and all that expansive hope
out there
at the edge of the world

I know he’s not kid
I thought to myself
I know he’s not