Lobster Pots

Down at the harbour everything has been brought on land. The lobster pots have been piled neatly atop of each other. The ropes are all coiled. There is order. The winter cessation of fishing begins. Boats will soon be placed on stilts and painted and mended. I never see this process. I am too early to watch the industry of others. But I pick up the smells as the crab and lobster nets dry out in the late October sun, like that of a wet dog in a car, though slightly sweeter, mustier. Sand and sea salt. Sticky. It’s a closing down time. The dark sets in. And I must prepare myself.