The Pool

A short poem.

A small pool of water lay before me.

I pushed my hand through its surface, disrupting the calm.

Warm water enveloped my hand — it was comforting.

I gently swirled my hand through the water, lending a feeling akin to swathes of light fabric brushing my skin. 

As my hands slowly danced around the pool, they met with an exotic object — it flurried by my hand.

Curling my palm into a rudimentary scoop, I net the phenomenon and, with one smooth gesture, surface my hands to the water's crest.

I look down.

There, laid in my hands, a soggy bit of fish finger.

It was time to finish the washing up.

Image courtesy of Matheo JBT @ Unsplash

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