Carpe Diem

Fishy Business

This poem combines two of the small pleasures of our garden; my cold tub and our goldfish pond.

The morning ritual of a few minutes spent in the cold tub, listening to the birds and watching the changing sky, provides a calm, meditative space to clear my thoughts before the day unfolds.

I had supposed, when we introduced five goldfish to the small pond we inherited when we bought the Time Capsule House, that this too would provide a place for quiet contemplation. Although I’ve spent many hours staring into the dark depths of the pond, more often than not they’re clouded by faint anxiety as I try to puzzle out the mysteries of fishy behaviour. There was an early death, RIP Lance, and yesterday —Easter Sunday – poor Terry, the fairest of them all, was found floating on the surface having been relentlessly bullied and harassed by the others. I hope they’re ashamed of themselves. Fortunately, the body was discovered and disposed of before four of the grandchildren arrived ready to rampage around the garden on an Easter egg hunt.

SIRÈNE ET POISSON

Perhaps she dreamt she was flying,
imagined that warm sea so
gloriously turquoise beneath her?
And the wreath of Turkish roses
in her hand. The scent of musk and neroli.

Yet she remembered the sun-drenched
citrus spray misting her skin, the sure
muscular flex of her sequinned tail.
How she soared with her piscine partner
to the palm trees’ verdant applause.

In the dawn drizzle, stinging pinkly
from the cold tub’s dark baptismal,
she presses coral-white toes into
the vetiver twist of wet grass.
Black-rooted, grounded. Back to shore.

And bends to the pond, Rose petals
float across her upside-down face,
tracing the ripples until bright
gouts of orange bloom from green fronds.
A dazzle of Fauvist fish dancing.