The old man, tanned mahogany
by sun, hunched like a heron fishing,
waits for hours on end at the rim
of a deep rock pool and gazes in,
where at high tide
slim grey mullet swim.
The pool reflects a mask of age,
a weather-stained and lined Narcissus
framing questions in his mind
born of mortal terror, rage:
Does a fish, with no concept
of time, fear death? Can a fish
desire to live forever?
Child of Chronos, clock hands race
insanely on an empty face,
reducing meaning, matter, form
to chronic paranoia, chaos.