A Trawlerman Poem by Karen Solie

The sea is neither animal
nor god. Won't be tamed or appeased.
Aidan gave his young priest oil
to calm the waves, but myth is most useful
when it rouses a body
to work harder. Body, spirit, fire and water
having been absorbed into the world
of commerce in which even
the seabirds participate. Their convergence
a sign of herring in the Haikes. Profit
unites great distances, yet its heart
beats inside us. But Evelyn,
whatever counts me truly among the living
resides with you. The rest just
perseverance and good gear.



Ran 30 minutes from Fife Ness, all nets shot
by 9, sky looks like wind. Soon,
heavy swell, the underwater cables
writhing. This foul coastline
laced in wrecks. We'll take tea with the black squad
while we can, and your fine bread,
Evelyn. The ‘38 winter herring
overspilled box and barrel, silvered the piers
at St. Monans, and the market so strong
fish girls' fingernails dissolved
in brine. No one can predict how herring run.
They are a tender species, easily
influenced. Luck brought them in
with money circulating freely
as the Germans prepared for war.