Old Fish

 

The marina is still. I could walk across this water. It must be glass, it’s too still to be real water. 

A seabird flies low, fast, dips the very tip of its beak onto the surface, like a stylus on vinyl, leaves a long silver streak behind it, banks up, turns, gathers speed again, then plunges into the water where the fish have been attracted by the simple trap. A fraction of a second later the bird emerges, an equally silver fish flapping in its beak.

The bird flies off somewhere private and safe to eat in peace. The water is still again, the bird, the fish, memories.

“That bird exhibited more forward planning than I ever have”, I think to myself, naturally identifying with the cunning and victorious bird, not with the easily attracted and taken fish. 

I was attracted to this island by shiny glamour. Now, I'm sneaking out, hiding down by the marina, waiting for my plane to land, to spew out tourists then take me away.

I'm headed to Sydney, the harbour city, where I will eat my fill of all the shiny things that come my way and forget the traps set by predators. And decades later, looking back, I will be pleased that I lived and swam to the surface to behold the wonders, because some fish survive and go on to become old fish, grey rather than silver, with the wealth of witnessed wonders stored away, and unafraid of death.

Parkstreet

Ko-fi