There are all sorts of things down there –
I’ve seen them glimmering in the murk,
moonfish, mirrorfish, memories –
sometimes a pale hand rises up
to press the surface.
I’ve seen my face reflected there
a thousand times. A million.
Vile, snapping things rise suddenly
in a whorl of mud, and sink again,
and gleaming predators glide smoothly,
light dappling their flanks.
So many things – lost things, that
unexpectedly break free, appear –
things jettisoned in the fight
to stay afloat. Illusions formed
from kelp and moonlight.
In this small boat,
I’ve sat out storms, and calms.
Some days I’ve waited hours
in the harsh, baking sun,
and nothing’s bitten on my line at all;
sometimes I’ve pulled a hundred
sometimes a single silver fish,
that I’ve let free, to leap and grow.
Sometimes a word, and sometimes silence,
sometimes a poem.
Here’s the quotation, from the man himself:
“Saw a poem float by just beneath the surface ” from Songs of Unreason