The Fisherman

I throw my line here and there
Good, bad, it doesn’t matter what I catch
All the colours of the scales are beautiful in my eyes
Some think fishing is for fools

To sit and wait
Perfectly still
For things to happen
Days and years

The line is a funny thing
Sometimes the waters muck things up
The silver line breaks

But away I go
Casting it out again

“Look at that fool,” they say.
“Holding a stick at the water’s edge.
She is mad!”

And on they go, their faint shadows diminishing before my eyes
That are razor-sharp focused on that line
That really does move this time.