7 OCTOBER 1995, Page 52

Gone Fishing

I do not mean the age between the casting and the bite; rather, beside or out of time: no 'Early', 'Then', or 'Late'.

All but one old man, who calls 'You must be the boy I passed this morning on the path.

Good fishing? Any joy?

'Remember how I wished you luck?

but that was long before the river dried, the harvest failed; the earthquake, and the war.'

We gather broken beams, and make a fire, and cook our fish.

He brings wine from his hut. We sit and stare into the ash. Time spent fishing doesn't count toward our final sum, but shifts to the eternal, or as close as we can come.

I came home in the evening, found the village silent, dead: roots poking through the ruined streets, roofs fallen, people fled,

Simon Darragh