Once the sea lived
wild or smooth, clashed or glass,
with the sun to wrap or unwrap
in fog fichus, gulls for windchimes, lightning
twisting like time in the mercury sky
until you came
with the endless freeze.
For years now
I've been sitting
on the ice
above the tiny hole
in your roof
line baited, watching your pale
streamed shape below
swallow lesser shadows,
just a hint of mottle, grey and white,
is all you show of your famished dive;
a tug to tease me,
an empty hook, blinking above
your bouquets of bones.
I built a shelter once
but it's long since fallen down.
Still I sit, winter's constant fingers
peeling my face, a rictus on my lipssnowclouds blowing my eyes
to stone, bruise-blue cracked ice
under ravelled wool. Will you come
ghost fish, sweet engine of the kill,
to look at me when I am
dead of cold, pause unbeing's
restless body, wink at this stiff
shell with your black spirit eye
before you push away
to the next fool's line and pole?
for Shay's Edward Emerson Simmons
This poem needs editing and work, but the time is sadly not there today, so I ask everyone's indulgence with its rough state.
fichu:, [fish-ooz; French]