BY JOLYN PHILLIPS
There is always the smell of vinegar
and fried makriel in the air
bodies that shiver around the gallie blik
pieces of burned paper that flutter
like fireflies in the sapphire sky.
Meanwhile the sea, sick of prodigal sons
putting up with the wind
throwing herself against rocks
when she can do nothing but burst.
Back at home
the wind blows
like a crazy goose trapped in a cage