The deeps liquefy around them

Summer Holiday coming up! - finish up at work, at the end of tomorrow ;-)

We've got a family-week at various Commonwealth Games events, next week; then a week in rural North Yorkshire ...

... in anticipation of some fishing during the second-week, I'm minded of this Chris McCully poem, taken from thepictured 1995 Collection:


White Trout
(for Owen Jacob)

I wade out again into the dark water.
Where the blurred moon also rises
in her night metal I stem the river
and silently fish, grey as thought.

Hardly sight helps, only exploring
the line's curve under the fingers,
each draw, each slack of current weighing
differently, strange, remote.

But others move. The deeps liquefy
around them in their pause upriver -
one, ten, twenty or more of them
circling, then resting; all white trout.

There the fly is, double-hoooked, a deft
mesh of feathers a bare foot down,
slowly arriving, slowly disappearing
as those sea eyes know it; as I know it.

And silently, fish run into the future,
slip the ripple into the still water,
finding smooth stone, the June dark,
the cast lighting on the moon's stunned arc.

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