He sits, his old muscles knotting on his bare back, contemplating the garden before him. Frost sticks to the blades of grass. His skin has paled and drawn tight in the cold air. The fish make languid rotations in the deep blue of the pond. Their scales, once dull, fractured, and rotted, are now vibrant and healthy, thanks to his care and the medical properties of this fresh mountain water. The stream trickles into the pond from its high source at the zenith. The man takes comfort in curing these fish. They had been abandoned. Assumed lost. But he found them, nurtured them, and brought them back to life. The man rubs his calloused hands. It does little to wash the blood from them.
Paddy Dobson
26th May 2022