Another One Of Your
If snatching a bite of
your bated breath
I turned, and embedded your hook in my flesh;
then what? Would I fight you until the death
of every ounce of strength and the mesh
of your keep-net hemmed me in? Would I?
What would you make of a flanking dash
on the end of a tautened tether fly
-ing back and forth? Would you see a flash
of fury at being caught in your game?
No, no. Youd strike; youd reel with glee
but Id deny your lead, the claim
youd make and the barbs youd tender. Free!
When the fight is done, the heart runs beating;
though the hook remains, its pain is fleeting.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Nigel Holt would be pleased to hear from you.