fishing

Fishing

In the river that flows past my window
I see a posh salmon swim,
shines like an assassin’s dagger before
it finds its victim and spray
the air in a mist of pink blood.

Pale fingers too swim, in this esoteric
stream, I catch them with my net
made of spiders’ web,
fry them golden brown, eat them by
the window.

Expensive fish doesn’t empress me
anymore, they are often
bony and hand-reared in some
Scottish fiord, unsavoury as titles
bought by ego bloated men.