The Bewitched Catch

The horizon buckles. A dead weight
in the early light and the boat’s deep wake
of sweet kicking froth.

You have called the souls of silent fish –
palms cupped round their fluttering names,
you charmed the haul
sliding wide-eyed home
gave the boat a safe arrival.

At the Voe’s mouth she curves her wake,
gulls pilot and slack
screech and wait
for the sparkling dead
that rock in their crates.