The Fish Who Saw Narcissus

He was a living statue, ripple-kissed,
golden in the bowl of our eyes.
Most boys made noise,
tried to catch us or threw stones,
then left. He lay gazing and we saw,
through very different eyes,
this perfect being, who, like us,
understood the importance of surfaces.
The nature of that reflected light
can mean life or death to a fish like me.
Then they took him away, our splendid boy,
and all there was, was another flower.

First published in Erratics, Arachne Press. (It won't let me do italics! Is there some special way to do italics here please?)


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