We are the fisherfolks, the gentlefolks, we don’t
Crosstalk over top-hats, tailcoats. They come
Visit from the city, twice every month. They want
Our fishes, our dishes, our bread. They want
Our milkmaids in their polkadots, our alcohol –
To tell a tale.
Gathered in our town hall, we listen in silence
To the shoptalk, pep talk, the talk of mechanisation:
More fish! Better Fish! More better fish! More!
We’re happy to participate in the effort. We’ve got
To be happy. They buy bulk loads of our happy
And over-milk our cows.
This is progress: our devilkins, our jaywalking babies
Will learn to read and write in the language
Of our gentle masters, who pay to drink our drinks
And keep our women close. We’re not bitter – We can’t
Afford to be bitter. But their statues of commanders:
They might want to watch out.
Image by Ailene Pasco.
