Pike
I take it he doesn’t think at all,
But muscles his slippery fight, an engine
Green deep, powering his belly flash
In his water mother, his horizonless well;
The hooked gill the fault in the world
Of his will, his preying paradise.
Near enough to net I have him,
And the murk of his body is my fear
Of our meeting somehow equally.
He pauses on the strain of my line;
I have him netted, sluicing the air,
How pure and brave my wet thrasher, my enemy.
by John Bruce
from Canadian Poetry Online
Enjoying the content on 3QD? Help keep us going by donating now.