Fishing

A cool pool of glistening Shimmering deep And mirrored there listening Beside, to keep a dozen Fish - scaled with gold. Beneath, encased in water cold. Amidst green wet weed they Mazy swim, back and fro - To dodge a hazy sun's refracted glow. You told me not to fish. That pushing curious hands Below the tepid aqua flow Would twist forever in the strands Of reed, and choke and cease their life to grow. No wet cold hands that grasp Forever downwards in a murky pond - For something sunken long ago. Written March 1st, 2002 © on Mar 01 2002 05:37 AM PST   0 • 9