You hold me in your net of privelage,
Woven with strands of broken history.
A fishing line and lure from a lost age
Thats taught with a catch - your mystery.
An official's pond churning with gold carp,
Begging for air and titbits from white hands,
Break the surface reflections that impart
Their ancient significance and honoured lands.
But the current stirs and pressures the bank,
And burys undeserving beds in silt.
Bottom-feeders, that dredge in the dark, thank
The flood. The wealth it brought, the life it spilt.
Free to trawl through discarded promises,
I cast my net to unknown depths and wait.
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