His Arms were Cold and Red
When he lowered in the fish,
they sank
belatedly, like coins and
just sat there
on the plastic liner
waiting for night
or the first algae
to cover their piebald backs.
We knew how foolish he felt;
he stopped using the patio.
We drank instead, watching
the news and american sitcoms.
Dad’s theory;
the fish were impaired,
bred in a garden centre
that once held POWs.
Imprinted, he said.
It would have been better
for a crow to take them.
Drop some blood orange
scales on the drive.
Matthew Davis is 33 and lives in Prestwich, Manchester. He started writing 12 months ago and submits poems for publication to avoid foisting them on friends.