Slipping from my fingers


by Brian Culley


I can throw the net,
I can catch the fish;
even though I know, perched,
waiting in my boat,
The ocean will never grant my heart,
the special fish;
its need and greatest desire.

I can row and row in good manner and game:
For sport even; I harbor no regrets,
until the moment the fishes beg

to be brought aboard.
Should I gut them?
– there and then,
Or lock them,
in a pen.

I always fail to deal the final blow,
They punish my hesitation,
wriggling wildly, squirming with frustration,
slipping from my fingers;
A final awkward twist.

I forget, I lament,
But every time I sail out and back,
riding the waves of that wide heartless sea,
I know she’ll never be, in my arms, right beside me.

That fish will never turn into the woman she was,
Because that fish was never seen,
That fish, has never truly been.



Photo credit: Steinar Engeland,




%d bloggers like this: