He sat in a rowboat, in the deep fiord, with
a bottle of vodka, a flask of tea, bacon butty
and an apple. A mild spring day and he was
fishing mackerel; many he hooked too, soon
the boat was quite full of blue, silvery bodies
writhing and painfully dying.
Tea and vodka he drank munched the butty,
ate the apple; lit a cigarette inhaled deeply
and enjoyed his solitude.
Bodily functions never stop, he stood up to
have a pee, slipped on his catch and fell into
the sea; heavy boots he soon sank down to
where the sea is dark and unforgiving; rain
fell on an empty bottle of booze, apple core,
thermos flask and fish that had lost their glow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.