Depths

He was a pacific man, tending his vegetables
and tending to a rolling silence;
yet he took his son sea-fishing,
out with boat, line, bait and hook
because That's What Dads Do With Sons.
The boy twisted inside watching bait writhe,
impaled on a hook, and hated it,
and so did the father. But they cast the line
and waited, and caught, and retrieved the hook
through a mass of guts, and 'cleaned' the fish
- slitting silver bellies with knives
and scraping out innards; both horrified,
both putting in the effort, doing their duty,
to please the other and behave
as they thought they ought.
 
Years swam by in shoals, seasons flashing
forgotten in a mass of bright lively flurry.
 
Boy, now man, and father never spoke
of the long-abandoned fishing trips.
The father vegetarian now, the son vegan,
and what they talk of is pruning and compost;
hand over carefully-nurtured tomato crops,
sweet podded peas and deep green leaves.
The father offers sensible unnecessary tips,
sound advice to which the son listens solemnly.
The son flies off on impractical idea-laden tangents
and the father listens patiently. Both still trying,
both still silently mouthing, placid fish.
So love, eternal school, rippling current,
constant wave, is never verbalised
but is known and shown; accepted
in a solid earth world and a shrewd shared
mistrust of violent oceans.