My Love She Loves to Fish [sonnet]

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My love she has a way of drawing things
From me like a fisherman pulls his fish
From the icy waters (sirens will sing).
Then to be served up on a golden dish.

Her delicate fingers circle the reel;
Winding the bait through the length of the line.
Turning and ratcheting all that I feel;
Sending it hurtling through air (serpentine).

Drowning and wriggling, I’m hooked on her bait;
Struggling and bubbling, I dare to complain.
My love she hovers, content there to wait
Knowing the outcome is always the same.

Although I may struggle, really I’m free:
For I am the only fish in her sea.

© 2010, Alan Morrison

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