a spear erupts from the lapping waves, the outlook grim and dark

the fisherman scowls, the rain pours down, but in his eyes, a spark

the day not done, a battle not won, the work is yet to cease

but in the depths a monster waits for final breath’s release

into the wind the hero roars, his ire raised and ready

with hat held fast and spear gripped tight he makes his going steady

the prow dips down and water roils round the boots of the questing knight

as the sails snap hard and the thunder screams of what below shall fright

gnashing teeth wrest wood from frame as the beast erupts once more

the fisherman thrown high from land and sea, no sight nor hope of shore

a pain, a gash, a rending wound upon leviathan’s back

the splintered haft and bloody palm held high in lightning’s crack

the grave calls quiet, a blinding light, soon silences the storm

the rain pours on, and on the shore, a single bloody form

the lake now still, the spear aloft, a memory of yore

but all now sing the fisherman’s praise, a hero forevermore