When I searched online for a fresh copy of the poem Fisherman by Jay Macpherson, I hardly got a reliable copy of it. The available online copy of the poem was not in a printable form. So I just typed it and thought of sharing it online.
The world was first a private park
Until the angel, after dark,
Scattered afar to wests and easts
The lovers and the friendly beasts.
And later still a home-made boat
Contained creation set afloat,
No rift nor leak that might betray
The creatures to a hostile day.
But now beside the midnight lake
One single fisher sits awake
And casts and fights and hauls to land
A myriad forms upon the sand.
Old Adam on naming day
Blessed each, and let slip away;
The Fisher of the fallen mind
Sees no occasion to be kind,
But on his catch proceeds to sup;
Then bends, and at one slurp sucks up
The lake and all that therein is
To slake that hungry gut of his,
Then whistling makes for home and bed
As the last morning breaks in red;
But God the lord with patient grin
Lets down his hook and hoicks him in.