two islands and dynamite

two islands and dynamite

There are two islands in the stream, one is big
and called the new island the other is small and
called the old island, the pair are linked to a bridge.
I crossed the bond to see my girlfriend, who lived
on the old island, in a shack, all houses were shacks
the fishermen lived there in suitable poverty.
I knocked on the door that was cracked, letting out
a light which was good, the steps to the house were
made off rough unfriendly stones.
Her mother opened I didn’t like her smelling of beer
she had three teeth left and spoke like a whistle.
She hated me for being a cook at a tourist hotel
work she thought was for skulkers men with soft
hands incapable to do a proper job, like fishing
mackerel for a living.
She has gone with her new boyfriend on his boat
he is a skipper, to Denmark, and with that,
she slammed the door shut.
On the news, a bridge crossing Crimea to Russia
has been blown up; when I crossed the bridge to get
to the new island, I thought of doing something
in that vein, but having no knowledge of dynamite
I let it pass.