Give a man a rod…edit 1.0

[tectak]

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

tektak, this is one of your better ones, for me, which means I can feel attached to it.

It's down to earth... I could easily grasp the emotion, it's no good crying... never was catches me.  Nice hook.

Seems like growing old is a growing theme around these forums but the feelings you are able to conjure regarding the loss of appreciation of anticipation through age, and the timelessness of hope, makes this poem one of the better attempts.

However, the first several lines come off sounding like a tounge twister, they wear me out... if that was on purpose, making the reader feel "age", congrats... I felt old and tired after reading those lines. I feel you got too cute with the sounds. floating line lines traceless is especially difficult.  giving up the ghost is also cliche.

Thanks q,
If it made you feel old I failed...if it made you feel lonesome OK, if it made you feel away from home and old and lonesome then great. Yep, there does seem to be a bunch of regret-me-lots in the northern hemisphere right about now...it's been a long winter but spring brings the regret of time passing. I used to write oh woe is me I'm sixty-three stuff, but I'm younger than that now.
I hoped that cliches pulled apart and mixed in to the piece might make the reader hesitate and drink in the poem more deeply...you know what I mean when you  can taste  something familiar but cannot quite say what it is.  That really is why I kept "spilling like milk" away from "no good crying" and why "gives up its ghosts" is the end of sprites lit by sunlight. You win some, you lose some with cliches
Oh, the "line lies traceless" is nothing complicated. Do you fly-fish? A floating line does just that but the trace, no matter how gently it rolls on to the surface with its dry fly attached almost always sinks if it is just on the water for way too long. It happens if you get lost in thought.I gave up fly-fishing when I retired. Who wants to get lost in thought when fish are cheap?
Best,
tectak