My Love She Loves to Fish [sonnet]
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
The Naked Troubadour 