Angling

(All fishermen are poets, deep thinkers, philosophers).

Rod Break

Then comes the imperceptible change of light

draping my shoulders like a veil

a hazy muslin

where twilight patterns dance

before my narrowing eyes.

So, wandering and wondering

amongst these dimming creams

and charcoal dusky greys

forty years fall away

and he is here again.

I know it’s time and turn to go

but not before his ruddy hand

taps lightly on my sleeve

and strokes my neck

‘time for home son,

leave them here’.

Creels creak, reeds snap

a distant whistle

and I am alone once more

save for the evening’s dulling aperture

heavy on my nostalgic gaze.

© 2008

*

Easby Abbey

Hidden deep in leafy woodland smock

the woodpecker’s hollow rhythmic knock

records the march of autumn’s clock

in burnished reds and golds.

My ancient cycle’s raucous clank

scores the puddled muddy bank

soddened cobwebs hanging lank

in tensile silver grey.

Clean pine scents, earth bark musk

pastels blot encroaching dusk

fungi, berries, a conker husk

in dappled marmalade.

A final trudge through chiselled trails

damp mossy sleepers, rusty rails

squirrels taunt with flashing tails

from alder, lime and beech.

Evening current, slow muted sound

tea-stained Swale meandering round

my leaky waders, thigh deep bound

in fading sage and tweed.

A tiny wooden ‘red tag’ treat

Lady Grayling darts to meet

a vital snatch that I must beat

to glimpse her crimson mantle.

The bounty of the evening rise

ever able to surprise

a banquet of a thousand flies

replete, I turn for home.

© 2016

*

Angler and Astronomer

An angler and an astronomer

both sat and took a drink,

one gazed up, the other down

refreshed, began to think,

the stars are tiny silvered fish

within a blue black sea

the ocean like a cloudless sky

that floats serenely.

Both men chanced to work alone

at their beloved vocation,

each in a world unknown to men

of lesser contemplation,

deep in thought and reverie

some answers they would invite

where do the stars go in the day

the fishes too, at night?

One watched the sky, one searched the sea

no respite did they take,

when both should find a meaning

a rendezvous we’ll make.

For three-score years this puzzle churned

the cream of their self-knowing

each man’s deep and sombre thoughts

awash, devoid of flowing.

Hence one bright day on chestnut bench

two wrinkled hands shook form

hooded, earnest pin-sharp eyes

fixed eager, keen to learn.

Said the astronomer, I’ve watched your fish

at dusk on many an evening,

the silvery bars, with changing hues

form camouflage for their leaving.

As I perused the dark shapes winked

and changed to languid flowers

that swept in swirling rhythm,

to wile away night’s hours.

The angler sighed and shook his head

his humour incredulous

to know at last his quarry’s ruse

beneath ranunculus.

In due course, the angler smiled

and raised his head with grace,

I too have found your heavens

a fascinating place,

at dawn, each morn the Milky Way

fades to a cotton shroud

it drifts and spreads above our heads

a beauteous silken cloud.

So be it constant fisherman

adieu then man of space,

we’re old and will not meet again

upon this mortal place.

Thus sated, both scholars passed

toward eternal rest,

their lifetime’s elemental bond

universally blessed.

Anon, on mottled, hazy cirrus days

all silvery fish look high

with bare surprise their leaden eyes

salute the mackerel sky,

and ‘midst the gloom, a hunter’s moon

the crystal orbs seek out

and dance their rays upon the gaze

of mullet tench and trout.

© 2010