We take the fisher out, but
chain her; we've built boats
and paddles
but have not learned the wicked grace
that summons food to hand;
The sun arcs upon the lake, but
the mists are rising faster;
the water calm, we still can't see
reflection in its mirror—
the depths are simply clearer.
No bump, but a hiss, a growl, signals the
horror
of finding our mate;
Thomas pulls him to the boat, and
we stroke the water with our blades
to return ourselves to shore.
Next morn', we find the fisher gone
to curse another village
and we offer each a solemn eye
that no tale will escape us.
First published in Bull Spec, issue 4,
Winter 2010–11.
That magazine is gone, so this is the copy that’s left.
As it ran
Bull Spec, issue 4 (Winter 2010–11)
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