First, like my daughter's hair, waving with Ophelia's madness As my hand twists, a fish in the cold bite of water Fearing the net and the shrouded enigma Of the wild banshee weed that chokes the pond; Then, like a green fleece, oozing and dripping And slip-slapping as I haul it from water to sun, Ready to be spun once the bright sighted droplets, The memories of home, have been dried and undone; Then hung on the wall like a dead shrivelled newt, Ready for the compost, a coiled desire For the water, for the silver scrape of the fish Pushing through, for the whispered thoughts of the current.