ten men fishing
on auckland wharf
all with thin fibreglass rods
just that exact distance
(made in china)
all watching each others baits
bobbing in the silver sheen
no one watching his own sinker
bobbing
one twitches down the line
a reel swishes
reeling in
nine men watching intently now
20 cm struggling catch
not much, so back it goes.
a bronze whaler
slinking slowly
under twenty pairs of dangling feet
decides
the distance was too much
to crunch a man for snack
quietly slinks
to the opposite shore
where she senses
feet splashing on a shallow beach.
primitive.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved,3 months ago
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I think it is a small step towards its rehabilitation to attribute thought to the bronze whaler, Marshall. Thank you very much.