They catch no fish and watch a grim bay dish
it out to cormorants and rocks. A fine
death waits at both ends of their fishing lines,
surprises them, and in they drop. The fish
won’t bite. Men sink, white bellies up, in kelp.
Unbated hookers troll the pier; sharp-eyed
as gulls they dodge the happy pairs and old
men used to stowing kit in other holds
to mob some teenage gobs who move to hide
their money and are lost. They smile for help.
"Had any luck?"—we toss our berley, sad
as Onan, on an unresponsive sea
and watch its sodden course—"Just bad…"
No angles. Just the great stupidity.