Writhing fish and speckled
In their ancient tongue convene:
“The one of whom our fathers spoke has come
Again to visit us–he who hovered on the Surface
And we leaped for joy.” (Forgotten memories
Of a blind happiness, when their cold blood
Was warmed, and they felt their scales tingle.)
“Come now, brothers! Come, let us fly to his net!
Ecstatically soaring above the waterless plane,
Each to be caught in his rope-made chains!”
On the dappling surface shines a face, a face
Brown as trout, furiously bright as the swordfish,
Fiercer than the shark, and older and kinder than
The grandfather blue whale.
And the turbid waters calm
And the silent silver arrows
Forget that they are more than fish.
James Watson will be entering the PhD program in English Literature at Baylor University next year. He is an inveterate cyclist, sometime runner, and lover of autumn. Besides his Lord, his wife and two boys are the greatest joy in his life.
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