03-08-2016, 09:09 PM
It's cooler now, beside the stream; my floating line lies traceless.
A mist crawls down, spring-born in woody fell, spilling like milk.
The light, white breath of dying day shifts and shimmies
surface sprites above the drift; rising and falling, rising and falling.
You get to thinking: it's no good crying...never was.
Another cast or two before the sun gives up its ghosts
then I will fish no more today. My net hangs empty in the shallows.
What is fishing without fish? A moment now and then of joy
-- anticipation isn’t what it used to be-- but I need the hook
to pull me, tempt me, keep me to the task...or I am alone.
I see the line twitch but hear nothing. The mist mutes all.
Some days you just have to believe. A tugging from a distant fish
is like a message from you. Familiar feelings flood over me
whenever my rod tip bends and dips…or when a letter arrives.
Fish and letters; it’s been a while. Sometimes I think
there’s no fish here at all…but I'll be back tomorrow.
tectak beside an Esk pool 2016
A mist crawls down, spring-born in woody fell, spilling like milk.
The light, white breath of dying day shifts and shimmies
surface sprites above the drift; rising and falling, rising and falling.
You get to thinking: it's no good crying...never was.
Another cast or two before the sun gives up its ghosts
then I will fish no more today. My net hangs empty in the shallows.
What is fishing without fish? A moment now and then of joy
-- anticipation isn’t what it used to be-- but I need the hook
to pull me, tempt me, keep me to the task...or I am alone.
I see the line twitch but hear nothing. The mist mutes all.
Some days you just have to believe. A tugging from a distant fish
is like a message from you. Familiar feelings flood over me
whenever my rod tip bends and dips…or when a letter arrives.
Fish and letters; it’s been a while. Sometimes I think
there’s no fish here at all…but I'll be back tomorrow.
tectak beside an Esk pool 2016