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ICE FISHERMAN

On icy plains, a city lays. Dark and deserted, cold as snow. There he sat counting the days on his fingers and toes, as the story goes. The old fisherman stayed behind singing “burning fire”. The cold wind was not all the kind and it burned higher and higher. The sound of song was now long gone. Ash on his face, running one last race. On the ice he sat fishing with no one around and no competition. Would you call it nice? I wouldn’t call it paradise. Would you feel alright if I called it in tonight? A wrinkled spot, a new grey hair, all alone but he didn’t care. An open sea with fish fry, stacked in the hole and piling high to the sky. The sound of song was now long gone. Ash on his face, running one last race. On the ice he sat fishing with no one around and no competition. Would you call it nice? I wouldn’t call it paradise. Would you feel alright if I called it in tonight?