In fishing it's always the mystery that gets me.
Not knowing what's under the surface of glass,
I rarely can muster the faith that's required
To keep at it, cast after cast after cast.
I'd rather sit down to enjoy sun and birdsong,
Watching the light as it plays on the trees.
This is a weakness, I know, to look shallow,
Never confronting the puzzle of deep.
But you know the secrets of watery hideouts,
You enter those depths as you stand on the shore
You know what's there waiting in cool, weedy hollows,
Each cast a step closer, more certain than prayer.
You envy the silence, I think, of the weedbeds;
Bulrushes rub against silvery scales.
you think of fish weightless, caressed by the water,
You've been there in dreams and recall how it feels.
Land-life is frenzied and webbed and it makes you
Admire perfection of purpose in fish.
No movement is wasted in their boneless fin-glide;
Even in fear, there's no trembling of flesh.