Sand under our fingernails, skin freckled and flaking from constant hours spent under the sun.
The water pools around our feet, we sink into the sludge. The smell of salt is bright and fresh, bird wheel overhead.
Rusty tins filled with stones, flax woven in strips. A tiny hook topped with last night’s left-over sausages. Dangled seductively into the river.
The eel watches us. Beedy eyes peer out from under the reeds. He is fast. He is swift. Like an arrow, splicing the water.
A tease. A taunt. Back to his hole. Plan foiled again. We share the sausage between us.