That summer’s more than fifty years ago

but all the memories are vivid still

of happy times spent working on a farm

on Ireland’s coast; long hours spent making hay

with scythes and pitchforks, scorching ‘neath the sun.

There was a day with not a cloud in sight

and yet we saw a shadow on the sea.

A massive shoal the farmer said, and so

we left our tools and headed for the shore,

collecting fuchsia buds to use as bait,

then launched a boat with buckets, lines and hooks.

A dozen at a time we hauled on board;

it turns out mackerel are easy prey.

Prepared and packed in salt, we filled a keg

to feed the farm through frugal winter months.

They grilled and served them up that night with spuds,

but not for me. I’m not a fan of fish.