Status: Personal Writing
Style: Poem
Client: N/A

In pre - dawn light; the womb like blankets

pushed away with rueful yawn.

Stretching, then shivering.  less from chill,

than from barely subdued excitement, with the image

forming clearly of the mornings chosen water.

Not a ripple stirring; the thick sweet musky odour

cool, and giving promises of life, and of leaf, and of fish!


The pools edge; approached with caution.

rods and reels laid out with sacrificial

precision, each in its allotted place.

The stage is set, the lone performer

takes his pose and waits in frozen time.


As the unfocussed sun begins to rise,

the sluggish mist, like some phantom

exorcised, retreats from whence it came.

Mirrorlike, the surface takes on a single

faceted sheen, reflecting a single orb,

barely dancing; … unlike the midges,

who, woken by the warmth of their god,

take on the spectral shape of

creatures as yet uncreated by the

comic, cosmic code of light.


In the stillness of the morning peace,

eager ears turn in the direction of

a watery pop or a swirl of foam,

which almost deafeningly drowns out

the louder, yet to the specialised hunter,

unimportant cheeps and chirrups of the

tribes of the feather; each intent on

out shouting its rivals or cementing its love.


Stubbornly, the anglers float sits silently and still.

nylon thread, curving gently away, pushed

by the suggestion of breeze, as yet

imperceptible to the skin, cooled by

mornings damp chill.

The ratchet turned slowly thus tightening line.

its clickety- clickety despoiling the purity of

silence amid cacophony; a man made

instrument of war.


Rising warmth, stirs into life a whirring, clattering

dragonfly, which dips and glides and stares and

hides, distracting eyes to gaze in wonder

at a creature so hideously beautiful and cruel and

damn! there’s a bite, snatch the rod and



Line float, weights, hook and maggot, tow

limply to shore.

Must have been a six pounder at least,

maybe more.


After baiting the hook with a luckless

new grub, which struggles when pierced

by the barb, sharp as hell.

A flick of the wrist sends it on its

fateful last journey…

Beating its siblings, who will mature to

flyhood, in soaring through the

mid-morning sky… at last to descend to a

watery end; either drowned or discarded,

or eaten alive; neither thanked for its life

or it’s death.


Again, a strange quiet takes over the scene…

a tautness, an instinct, an expectant air -

which timelessly stretches for minutes or hours.

The mind turns inwards, relaxed and yet ready to

pick up the pieces when the body has already

acted, to pin some hungry pescan who disturbed

the hunters trap.


Ah … but nothing; just the slap of a rogue

wave on an otherwise tideless shore.

an occasional bloop, as the speckled green tench

infuriatingly disturbs leafy smelling gas on its

search for anything to eat except the

anglers’ focal worm.

A sucking, mocking, slurping carp, rolls

over, leaving nothing more than eddies in

the tranquil pond, which flick the weeds,

beside the waiting gaol of net and wire.

It’s gaping entrance mocking; a virgin

yet to be presented with its prize of

unwilling captives.


But no… today is not the day.

Removed unceremoniously, along with line and hooks,

and floats, to be packed away…. for another day…

a special day.

When nature herself, bows her head to the

flagrant will of the hunter,

sometimes, it is the turn of the chaser to be

the winner… the successful… the sated.

Our hunter today holds no grudge.

his intentions were not to kill and maim.

Only, to return these fellow creatures back to their

natural habitat, to continue to their allotted time in the way intended by nature.

There is hope for us all.