Pond life.

Pond life.

There are very few angels

Snuffling in the mud

Searching for scraps

Fighting for space

Among the bottom feeders.

They hang out with clowns

And dodge predators

Using the carbonised bones of

The dead and dying

As refuge,

To escape the sharks.

Killers in white suits

Who strut their stuff

Afraid of nothing,

Never still or sated,

Always on the make

Waiting to take

Whatever they want.

Sweeping from side to side,

Cruising around,

Dangerously elegant

And eagle eyed,

Looking for an easy mark.

They can make a dogfish bark

And rarely settle

For a seal of approval,

Or a dance with penguins,

Only giving way

To the blue bloods.

The strongest link

In the food chain,

They rarely swim with grey fish

And hold their breath

Whilst diving in the deep

Basking in the

Dull glow of low-life

For a while,

Before heading up

To sunlight,

Fresh air

And the freedom

Of the open sky.