his leather palms grip the line
as the tuna fights for life.
it sings in psalms,
stinging strong,
shining in his eyes.
what use have you for words, o' fish?
o' tyrant of the sea?
your royal hues
of palace blues
defy all eulogy.
that string of silver, slicing fast
across his arching back
rends slivers til
the swells go still
or coils run out of slack.
and when that sun, that burning eye
sinks beneath the waves,
your wild run
of songs unsung
sets memories ablaze.
at last you rest, o' king of kings,
and glide toward the sky.
your final test
at his behest;
he's weeping as you die.
All things, even the greatest things, must end.