Some time ago I wrote a rather scathing poem about goldfish, those dull yet troubling pets. Over the years I have come to think the poem does fish a disservice. This sonnet, which looks at real piscine wonders, is the act of restitution. In the final collection (yes, I am planning one, self-published if needs be) it will sit immediately after the original poem, which is entitled ‘Fish 1’.
Scorn goldfish tanks, come to the brine
and plunge to fathoms far below
the shallow range of lure and line,
find wonders where the sun can’t go.
Take angler fish, with glowing bait:
the smaller male swims to a mate,
his teeth latch on, all’s going great
as he starts to assimilate.
Skin fuses, both eyes drop away
and all his organs are absorbed,
except, of course, his testes stay.
The female swims on undisturbed.
We’ll leave the male a parasite
and drift back slowly to the light.
© Huw Evans 2019