Fish Gotta Swim, Birds Gotta Fly
The garden in the Fishermanís Inn is made
a young new place by the summer evening.
Shoals of mackerel shift in the bay and above them
the gullsí cries sing with the same melancholy
as the juke box and the blues singerís love song.
These two, the boy and girl, feel a nervous wonder.
It is evening on an August day and the boats are at
If you have any comments on these poems, Robert Nisbet would
be pleased to hear from you.