Worm

It dangles and squirms inches from
The hook like cotton near the eye
Of a needle. We laugh as we fumble
With the thinness of the tool
Its barb catching our skin, blood
Like a teachers full stop.
He cannot steady his hand.
The worms flesh parts with little force
Hot knife into butter. We cast the line together
Losing sight of the worm till it ripples back
Sleek waves expanding like news of death in a village.
I cannot help but notice his arms.
He does not notice how the sun shimmers
Upon his patchy haired head,
Nor how pale he looks beside the sun lacquered
Fisherman who sit like Greek Gods
Awaiting the fall of some tragic Hero.
Water Breaks like broken dreams
The fish reflects the light of day.
He bends the knees, arches the back
Knuckles white as he grips the rod
I think I hear his knees click.
The fish flaps exhausted by the bank
He stands Victorious, sweaty but smiling
Breathing deep the summered air.

It is not death the worms it way through
But the dark stubbornness of the unknown,
That which shakes you awake.
The bedside vigils, the glitter coated cards,
The indifferent bleep of the machines.
The Fish flaps, the worm hangs mangled from the hook.
We lower the fish back into the water,
I catch his gaze, there is no hospital room
Discolouring the emerald in his eyes
No pale sunken skin, nor motorways of feeding tubes
Just the sparkling sun spilt river
And the smile of a child, on the day of his first catch.