Somewhere beneath the mirror,
In that liquid crystal realm
You tread.
You roll your lidless eyes
In your bony silvered head.
A helm
Of scales and opalescent mail,
Your armor (in disguise,
‘Tis said)
Adorns you lip to tail.
And here sit I
Upon the bank.
I greet with cheer each rank
On rank
Of passers-by
Who ask me what I’ve caught.
But tools to pierce
Your armor? Why,
I’ve naught
But a simple pole, with hook
Attached by line.
I try
To seduce thee to stay and dine.
At least, to look
At the vulgar fare I offer:
The finest worms
And fleas.
This must affirm
I will empty every coffer
Your palate to please.
But you,
You toss your head
In mirth at me
And smirk
At the folly
Of my toilsome work.
I know you’re there
Beneath the sea,
Beneath that blue, bare
Tapestry
Of glass and foam.
But curse you!
And your fishy friends,
This is the end,
I’m going home.


Penned by my hand on the 17th of Chronos, in the year 383 AF.