Flying Fish

They say never go back
but he did. To the scene
of the crime, as it were.

The fish had flown.
There was no sign
of them anywhere.

There were no birds singing
in the overhanging
trees either.

The water still
had the look
of pea soup

and he found himself dwelling,
once more, on how
people sink, swim and cope

with the ebb, the flow
and all that life
has to throw at them.

Someone upstream
must have tipped the contents
of that can down their throat

then thrown it in
and watched it float
(like the ones that got away) away.


Going Back