These wayward meets
between us,
bird and fish,
made near the rivers of otterdom
are blessed
quietly now and unassessed
by all the passers by.

You and your parasol in kind,
me and my bare feet,
designed
with a poorer life in mind.
I'd cast my pole again,
whilst you'd set your bread on the bridge's wall
for the doves to come and call
to call and come a'gathering.
Merely pigeons, each,
merely pigeons
one and all.

I'd see your clamped and shut words,
your bitten wail,
amidst your friends of the park-ground pale
dressed in all their flowering frills.
Merely pigeons one and all.

You'd dare sail your eyes to me,
cross the water to meet with mine.
And how the river'd strip away
the face you wore then
and still today.
I could have watched your reflection stay,
feath'ry 'tween the cattails,
fluttering off the water and resting 'gainst my scales.

But a bit of bank under my nails,
says I am much too poor for this.
Much too poor for tales
to remind me when you come to feed,
remembering when I come to catch,
that we are not so different,
though
yes the world would let us know.