Benjamin Wood

brown shrimp tumbling in the wash of water far away, awaiting his return, if not today then some day after, when the money’s all been spent ...

brown shrimp tumbling in the wash of water far away, awaiting his return, if not today then some day after, when the money’s all been spent in the account on bills and debts and stuff to eat and smoke and Lord knows what his ma does with it, but he knows this much: the town feels smaller than it did when he rode through it last, the outer world seems fuller and less difficult to reach. He’s added something to it now – it mightn’t be much cop or good enough to get the admiration of the crowd down at the Fisher’s Rest, but he can say he made it on his own, and there’ll be more to come. This little snippet of the coastline he relies on for his livelihood does not belong to him or anybody, but it’s always there, preceding him, outlasting him for sure, and he can recognise his loyalty to the ghosts who walk along it – he can even manage to respect himself for being steadfast to the work – but there’s no meaning in it any more. It doesn’t matter to the sea who visits it, or to the shrimp who scrapes them from the sand. A song, though – well, a song belongs to someone. To whoever dreamed it up. Yesterday it wasn’t even born, and now it’s in the world. He can’t go on ignoring what he’s best at, and it isn’t shanking in his grandpa’s cart.