Part 3 (1/2)

IV.

'We'll be the quicker going down,' they say And when you argue there are no storms here, That one hour floating's sure to land them safely 'The lough will claim a victim every year.'

2 BEYOND SARGa.s.sO.

A gland agitating

mud two hundred miles in- land, a scale of water on water working up estuaries, he drifted into motion half-way across the Atlantic, sure as the satellite's insinuating pull in the ocean, as true to his...o...b..t.

Against ebb, current, rock, rapids, a muscled icicle that melts itself longer and fatter, he buries his arrival beyond light and tidal water, investing silt and sand with a sleek root. By day only the drainmaker's spade or the mud paddler can make him abort. Dark delivers him hungering down each undulation.

3 BAIT.

Lamps dawdle in the field at midnight.

Three men follow their nose in the gra.s.s, The lamp's beam their prow and compa.s.s.

The bucket's handle better not clatter now: Silence and curious light gather bait.

Nab him, but wait For the first shrinking, tacky on the thumb.

Let him resettle backwards in his tunnel.

Then draw steady and he'll come.

Among the millions whorling their mud coronas Under dewlapped leaf and bowed blades A few are bound to be rustled in these night raids, Innocent ventilators of the ground Making the globe a perfect fit, A few are bound to be cheated of it When lamps dawdle in the field at midnight, When fishers need a garland for the bay And have him, where he needs to come, out of the clay.

4 SETTING.

I.

A line goes out of sight and out of mind Down to the soft bottom of silt and sand Past the indifferent skill of the hunting hand.

A bouquet of small hooks coiled in the stern Is being paid out, back to its true form, Until the bouquet's hidden in the worm.

The boat rides forward where the line slants back.

The oars in their locks go round and round.

The eel describes his arcs without a sound.

II.

The gulls fly and umbrella overhead, Treading air as soon as the line runs out, Responsive acolytes above the boat.

Not sensible of any kyrie, The fishers, who don't know and never try, Pursue the work in hand as destiny.

They clear the bucket of the last chopped worms, Pitching them high, good riddance, earthy shower.

The gulls encompa.s.s them before the water.

5 LIFTING.

They're busy in a high boat

That stalks towards Antrim, the power cut.

The line's a filament of s.m.u.t Drawn hand over fist Where every three yards a hook's missed Or taken (and the s.m.u.t thickens, wrist- Thick, a flail Lashed into the barrel With one swing). Each eel Comes aboard to this welcome: The hook left in gill or gum, It's slapped into the barrel numb But knits itself, four-ply, With the furling, slippy Haul, a knot of back and pewter belly That stays continuously one For each catch they fling in Is sucked home like lubrication.

And wakes are enwound as the catch On the morning water: which Boat was which?

And when did this begin?

This morning, last year, when the lough first sp.a.w.ned?