An Ode to Sea Trout
Brilliant blue skies, make way for watery glows.
High banks throw premature shadows, from the fading, yet powerful evening sun.
The ruby red streams deepen; lengthen, vibrate.
Under overhanging branches, amongst tangled roots, a glide becomes inky dark; heavy and drinkable.
A crackle of branch, could be deer, vole, coot or other.
Ears trump eyes as the source of rumours and truth.
A stillness on an ever moving body of water - interrupted by a slow, menacing, intentional take.
An easy win; but many more are needed to power the silver, elegant rocket.
Then silence again.
The continual tumble now not heard; accepted and merged into the senses.
The fly, an extension of the nylon,
an extension of the line,
an extension of the rod,
an extension of an arm,
an extension of hope, offering and acceptance.
Intense alertness. Pulse pounding.
A splash. Broken water.
The line still slack. A misfire.
Tension evaporates.
Shoulders down, breath in.
Tonight the game was lost.
The never ending pursuit continues. Wiser.
The moon relieves shadows and ushers in a new era.
Misty; colder.
Owls and sea trout it seems retreat together; always in charge, in control.