Only the children hunt

Only the children hunt

In the shallow of the bay.

Wise old birds circle above

Waiting to see what foolish fish will do

The clever ones were jumping

But too far away for the terrible infant anglers

Casting their hooks in the wrong direction

They who would be trawlermen

Slicing through an icy sea

Buffeted by cold north winds

Tossed from wave to wave

Trough to trough

Waders, who would be trawlers

Hauling in a heavy net

Churning up the ocean floor

Tearing up the seabed

Indiscriminately

Ecological promiscuity

Killing to make a living

Without the need to take aim

Pulling a trigger or wading in the deep

Is it any wonder

Everything is getting harder to control

When the practice of wildness

Starts in children as a pastime

And before too long

We are praying for their souls

When they become victims of a storm

That will continue to rage on

Sometimes gently but with more urgency

Than yesterday

When we were all but precious children

Mindfully precocious

Spitefully ferocious

Spare the rod

But not the Peacemaker

Dispatch the gun to a landfill

It might yet re-maketh the man

As a saviour

A personnel redeemer

A soul survivor.