The stream,
the colour of black tea
chuckles over flat stones
and fine gravel
as it bustles past my rod,
whether this hurried mirth
is privy to my chances
of catching a trout
is anyone’s guess.
I carefully enter the water
become elemental, fluid,
its first volcanic chill courses
through my limbs until parity
brings relaxation, I am calm
I begin to read the water.
Sure enough, beneath the alder,
before a churning riffle
a slack pool, darkly overhung
Judas ripples
a scoffing sup keens my eyes,
again!
betrayed by hunger, a fish rises.
It isn’t a large fish
I surmise a dry Grey Duster
will do the job,
tied small, size sixteen
barbless hook, longish leader,
each piece fingered gently,
joined seamlessly.
One false cast behind to check
the fly’s behaviour, cautious,
the alder bows low here
a yard above the water
no more, it won’t be easy,
one chance
to drift across his eyeline.
The cast is perfect,
kisses the stream and begins to glide
toward the dark pool,
time slows, a measured calm
expectant,
motionless
then!
*
© Graham Sherwood 11/2019
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 