Pike

I

For five years I kept a pike, An ancient fish who grew, were lost Aged by the water, each scale, A scar brilliantly birthed, Feeding on the random. I stilled to see him glimpse. I had a thing, too, which I placed as trade In the dim rub of the current.

II

Pike, a ferocity bottled, Swam low with dark desires, Colder than the cobalt of lakes. His mouth, glistening sharp, Drew the ghost view in the water. What inertia of dark, of the grained cold.

III

And for a sense of mastery, I sought him, beseeching the depths But it was a myth the hunt reaped. Strung up as regret, a wreck, That dank odor of being caught, As he blasted through all that light.

• Ted Hughes