Fish On The Grass
Like a fish on the grass, I’m dying,
Crying in the sunshine browning,
Frowning, frightens me, I fail,
Mated under bait, fate has cruel,
Twists to feature me.
I weigh my fin bely my thinking,
Sinking, it is quickened breaking,
Waking, shaking through the skin,
Nowhere left to run or swim,
Gasping for another breath to spit,
With or without a last word,
Heard or not, let me die.
I can lie here, let me die.
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man, who has written from Cork, Madrid and Prague. Currently residing in Glasgow, Lyng continues to refine his work. Aided with the ability to write in English and Gaeilge, examples of his work have been published in Vada Magazine, From The LightHouse, An Gael-IrisLeabhar Idirnaisiúnta and his eponymous wordpress account.