ramblings and things

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Jonesy was my first neighbour on marriage and a good Sunday night pints mate.   This is true, and to him, nothing special in the deep sea fishing life.


I saw the scar down his calf

long smooth and white

standing out against his tan

in the bright summer light;

whisky surgery he told me,

seeing my curious glance

and I got him talking

while I had the chance.


We both settled down with a beer

and he told me how it had been

just so casually describing, to me,

an horrifically  dangerous scene.

Fishing in a storm off Iceland

trawling for the cod

risking their lives

under a fickle sea god.


Then the steel warp parted

catching just him alone,

whipping back to gash his leg

right down to the bone.

The whisky forced down him

until he really didn't care,

the skipper producing a needle

to sew him up then and there.


And the crew carried on fishing

with no time to waste

every second's fishing necessary

in the profit's chase.

He said it really didn't hurt

with the whisky in his gob

and he reckoned the skipper

had done quite a neat job.


Very soon after that

he decided to come ashore,

said the lure of the sea

didn't pull so much anymore,

and with a wife and child

didn't want to push his luck.

As an ex deckie he fairly easily

obtained his docker's work book.


A very quiet person,

very pleasant and shy

but I go to know him well

as the years rolled by.

Never again mentioned his leg

which I only saw by chance,

that long smooth white scar

having just caught my glance.


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