Pike, three inches long, perfect One jammed past its gills down the other's gullet: Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold. The outside eye stared: as a vice locks- Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin. The same iron in this eye They dance on the surface among the flies. Though its film shrank in death. Or move, stunned by their own grandeur, A pond I fished, fifty yards across, Over a bed of emerald, silhouette Whose lilies and muscular tench Of submarine delicacy and horror. Had outlasted every visible stone A hundred feet long in their world. Of the monastery that planted them- In ponds, under the heat-struck lily pads- Stilled legendary depth: Gloom of their stillness: It was as deep as England. It held Logged on last year's black leaves, watching upwards. Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old Or hung in an amber cavern of weeds That past nightfall I dared not cast The jaws' hooked clamp and fangs But silently cast and fished Not to be changed at this date: With the hair frozen on my head A life subdued to its instrument; For what might move, for what eye might move. The gills kneading quietly, and the pectorals. The still splashes on the dark pond, Three we kept behind glass, Owls hushing the floating woods Jungled in weed: three inches, four, Frail on my ear against the dream And four and a half: red fry to them- Darkness beneath night's darkness had freed, Suddenly there were two. Finally one That rose slowly toward me, watching. With a sag belly and the grin it was born with. And indeed they spare nobody. Two, six pounds each, over two feet long High and dry and dead in the willow-herb- Her Husband
Pike, three inches long, perfect Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold. Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin. They dance on the surface among the flies. Or move, stunned by their own grandeur, Over a bed of emerald, silhouette Of submarine delicacy and horror. A hundred feet long in their world. In ponds, under the heat-struck lily pads- Gloom of their stillness: Logged on last year's black leaves, watching upwards. Or hung in an amber cavern of weeds The jaws' hooked clamp and fangs Not to be changed at this date: A life subdued to its instrument; The gills kneading quietly, and the pectorals. Three we kept behind glass, Jungled in weed: three inches, four, And four and a half: red fry to them- Suddenly there were two. Finally one With a sag belly and the grin it was born with. And indeed they spare nobody. Two, six pounds each, over two feet long High and dry and dead in the willow-herb- One jammed past its gills down the other's gullet: The outside eye stared: as a vice locks- The same iron in this eye Though its film shrank in death. A pond I fished, fifty yards across, Whose lilies and muscular tench Had outlasted every visible stone Of the monastery that planted them- Stilled legendary depth: It was as deep as England. It held Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old That past nightfall I dared not cast But silently cast and fished With the hair frozen on my head For what might move, for what eye might move. The still splashes on the dark pond, Owls hushing the floating woods Frail on my ear against the dream Darkness beneath night's darkness had freed, That rose slowly toward me, watching. Her Husband
ted_hughes_poetry.docx