Adam

Adam

I’m a firm-chinned trawlerman.
I don’t fight on the quay.
I’m not a brawlerman.
I don’t stagger in the gutter
Getting legless in the pub
I’m not a crawlerman.
Although I’m not short,
I could be a bit taller man.
My name is
Adam.

Heaving seas much like the
Heaving bosoms of the girls I have
Pinned around my bunk.
In the middle of the night
In the midst of a gale I catch
Their slightly uncertain eyes in the glare
Of my mobile phone.
I’ve cut them out from magazines.

Yet my heart yearns and the
More it yearns I beg not
For a girl in every port.
The lessons I’ve learned,
The lessons I’ve been taught,
Someone to spend my time with
Because my trawler days are fraught
And my life will mean nought
Because I really ought
To find
Contentment,

Slippery nets as we haul in a big one,
Scales and flippers, kippers,
Frantic shouting from the skipper,
Diesel generators and lights
Illuminating horizontal rain.
How I tire of these
Seas
How I pine for a night
With a loved one.

I’m too old
For magazine cuttings.

Chugging into port,
A belly full o’ fish
After a week on the big brine
Feeling an ache in every muscle,
A lonely room awaits me
Somewhere in this place, this
Collection of lights, this
Outpost of humanity,
This
Rock-clung town with its cottages
Like limpets holding on so
Tightly as if to an idea.

She’s out there, I can feel
An untold story,
A future love.

Author: Robert Garnham

Performance and spoken word artist.

One thought on “Adam”

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