The art of fishing
Some folk fish mid-stream, standing
in the middle of the flow, whirring long lines out
to scrawl and loop against the sky.
Others paddle off in battered boats, cast crusts
of hope to lure the shadows from the depths – or
congregate and solemnly compare
their rods and reels, boast of ones that got away,
then row home empty-handed.
But me? I lie alone, low in the shade, silent
as the rock, my body rooted as a mountain ash.
Long hours I listen to the grass
play chinese whispers with the breeze.
When darkness wraps around me like a shawl
I stare into the midnight pool, eyes candle-bright,
until a slash of silver swims towards my light,
I gauge the moment’s right, plunge
my hands into the numbing depths, haul
the living poem to the page.
First published in Cencrastus, 2000