Cod War

A low key Icelandic harbour,

one jaunty fishing boat,

the salting-shed is shut,

gulls swoop,

ducks bob on the swell,

their Frankie Howard, 'ooohs'

take me back to the 70s.

Freshly arrived in England,

after six weeks at sea 

my land legs were wobbly.

We watched the BBC

on a black and white TV,

after, Family at War,

the News:

IRA, powercuts, cod wars,

neverending

Vietnam war.

'Cup of Tea?'

We took sugar

whether we liked it or not.

I could not understand

this war with cod,

'imagine no more fish and chips'

but my father bought rock eel.

I learnt more in Social Economics,

a subject which,

with Esperanto and Modern Embroidery,

set me up.

We marked fishing perimeters

on maps of Europe

my mind drifted beneath

into the dreamy world of cod.

I swam with them and gaped

at the approaching net,

felt the last gasp,

drowned in air,

was dragged to grey death.

I read the ubiquitous information board:

'Nigeria is the largest importer of Icelandic salted cod'

it's a small world.