Fish are netted by day here
speared by night.
A tongue of coral protrudes under the tide
where the men stand loin-deep
in foam, their black-basalt legs
braced against the surf, legs like
an outcrop of the reef itself, so still
that moss moves towards it, impelled
by some primeval instinct of its own.

Flashlights stab the sea;
from shoulder-height javelins descend,
splintering the light as the fish is skewered
and forced down the spear-head,
still threshing the sand.

At the thatch village two hours before dawn
dogs bark tentatively and silhouette-wives
receive them with hurricane-lanterns
the men with their harvest on their backs,
shell-grit and sand still clinging to their feet.

But when clouds go about like shrieking gulls
and each wave descends from its cliff-top
like a cataract, and the wicker-lamps are snuffed out,
they spread their fishing-nets on the ground
and spread their women over them
splay-legged.
Fish here are speared by night.