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Christopher Hampton

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Man's Eyes View

These fish live cold lives,
Cradled under water.
But I doubt if they
Would make an issue of it.
They are not my kind at all.
No distractions and no rules,
Free from bigots and bad schools.

Below the town they move,
Catching idly at food,
Caressed and sleek in sleep.
They do not need to prove
Their talents, do set tasks,
Imagine dangers, brood
On doubts, convictions, systems.

Head upstream, one of them basks
In a patch of sun-steeped water.
Bait may cut his idyll short,
But he won’t know it till he’s caught.
He knows no limits. He can sport
The river’s length without restriction,
Dart at speed and flicker on his back,
Or drift through shade in aimless motion.
And though frantic on the river’s bank
His life is quick to sense its death,
In water he can breathe
Complacent, in the water
His companions will not grieve
His death, or write a poem on him.
Theirs is not a poet’s world.
Unlike mine, their time’s their own.
They’d think it strange (if they could think)
That I should spend my time on them.

But then I’m not their kind at all.

 

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