The Dreamfisher

Almost morning: the dreamfisher walks,
stalks the sky with casting eye,
questing spear, rod, line,
hooks and floats, sun submerged
beneath horizons.

                     Merging with movement
of breeze-bent reeds, he strides, dips,
flips web-fine cloud-weft high
to heaven.

           Stars slip through nets, and there,
in the dark aurora of your hair, regrets
give up their ghosts, caught and carried
far from sleep.

                     Deep in dream,
you sigh, shift, and soon forget
the parting kiss, cool and holy,
as the dreamfisher turns and wades away.

Oz Hardwick