A.B. Jackson

The Blue

Low Point, Nova Scotia.
The fishing boat crew
enjoy a hullabaloo:
their catch, a blue lobster.

It’s pure outlandish –
a gene mutates, one
chance in two million.
They won’t cook this:

in fishermen’s lore,
a lobster of such indigo
signals prosperity,

good hauls offshore,
no fires below.
Luck, be a lobster for me.

Listen to A.B. Jackson reading this poem on location in Sheffield:

This is the second of six sonnets to be uploaded as part of The Rose of Temperaments. A ‘variant’ text, with additional input from Angelina D’Roza, appears here

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