Nets the harvest
Of her listening,
Heaves up dripping
From the water
Silver fish
Bright weed.
In the water
She has caught
‘Tree’ and ‘shoe’
But remote
In the autumn sky
The ‘poon’
Eludes her.
Each glittery word
Wriggles as it’s raised,
Till at last released
In its proper element.
Brimming, shy,
Fisher and fished
Eye each other
Cool as ‘cutecumbers’.
(The Honest Ulsterman, 82, ed. Frank Ormsby, Winter 1986, p.55)