Fishing out the lake:
Red bob, white ball dabbling in the water:
My own line out the boat’s wake.
Sudden line dropping
From up the sky, up in the stars,
Watched the line drop in by mine.
I cut a glance up to the dark
Saw a crescent moon, a sliver sharp,
And a shadow flicking his line off the edge.
A man on the moon, I presumed,
Fishing a line of his own.
The broken, bobbing light played over the line
Like a spider web thread to the water
And it jerked, tugged, twicked round:
The moon man had stolen my catch.