On Turner's Vesuvius (I) Poem by Alex London

Just hours before, the mountain had stood
An age old man in a crisp white hood,
Gazing at water that lay by his feet,
The lazuli lapping, not ceasing to beat.
The boats on the surface plunged deep with their hooks,
Pulled hard at his face, all wrinkles and nooks,
And stole from his glass the shimmering fish
Whose lives would be stolen twixt darting and dish;
Their silver, he saw, lost lustre and life,
Mouths gaping, sides slit with a raggedy knife.
From the bearded grey mouth a grumble did spill,
But the hooks kept on dragging and hoarding their fill.