THE fisherman leans backward on his cord; The shallows wash his footprints clean away. His beard is stuck with scales; without a word He hauls and hauls, dreaming upon his prey. No thought of coffer's jewelled band and latch, Nor of white, bleeding mermaidens that sprawl Gasping in suffocation 'midst the catch Disturbs his thrifty brooding on the haul. Spill out your netted hoard, your toll of scales, The snared amazement that your gullery pulls From the drowned gardens where slow water-gales Wash unknown jungles and world-weary hulls! Fishes moustached, spotted and spikey-finned, Flash terror-struck and burst upon the sands! Now, from your slippery mass, toll of the wind, Sort the slim pike with eager, callused hands! |