Issue 60 - The Fish Dragon
Under the towering cliffs of The Isle of the Dragon that plunge deeper than deep into the deep deep sea, the bows of a fishing skiff blazoned in the yet faltering rays of the sun. All things glistened and listened in the sun, up rising the sun in its absolute impartiality. Its light it sprinkled on all and sundry, on the ropes, on the ripples, on the flying fishes, on the whiskers in the man’s grizzled beard.
Silhouetted high up against the iridescent cobalt blue, jagged blackened birds stared down on his thrashing hair and mackerel-green eye. His bulbous sails, white as codflesh, drank the wind as he sped into the darkling shadow of The Dragon. Tacked with the great cliff at his back, he looked.
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Silhouetted high up against the iridescent cobalt blue, jagged blackened birds stared down on his thrashing hair and mackerel-green eye. His bulbous sails, white as codflesh, drank the wind as he sped into the darkling shadow of The Dragon. Tacked with the great cliff at his back, he looked.
Read more of this article by subscribing to Waterlog
return to contents