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The world is perfect -
the sky is vast and biblical
as the Sistine ceiling.
Down here among the mortals
water laps at the side
of our aluminum hull
like a loyal spaniel.
Waves lift us,
gently lower us,
in rhythm
to the moon's clock.
The magnificent fireball sun
extinguishes salmon pink
behind shoreline trees,
cottage lights blink on
signalling that fish
will soon be biting: Quiet
anticipation.
A carefully chosen lure
wobbles and jerks
mimicking prey, catching
the day's last rays
in weedy depths,
flash of chrome
to trick pike or bass
into suddenly attacking -
turn predator into prey.
Who will be lucky
who not
STRIKE!
(like a missile)
our cradle skiff
jolts, rocks
with violence
and surprise.
Senses are returned quickly
by the work at hand,
shriek of whizzing reel,
command of bowing rod,
tug and splash
of struggle -
the primal desire
to be free.
In a few minutes
the dorsal fin
full of spikes surfaces,
sleek elongated body
about the length of an arm,
green with yellow spots,
tail flapping like a small flag -
toothy prehistoric mouth
hooked clean
between lip and snout;
tired now,
too tired
to fight
anymore.
2 comments:
Probably the first serious poem I ever wrote, in high school, was a long poem called “Fishing”. I have always been fascinated with the ritual and the drama of it. There is something very visceral and primordial about it as well. It’s something humans have doing for a very long time. It also reminds me, oddly, of baseball, a slow-moving, relaxed pastime that can suddenly (like a missile) explode into intense activity, passion, and even violence. Your poem evokes all of these things for me, with some terrific lines and some powerful metaphors. Water lapping like a loyal spaniel. Turn predator into prey. Terrific.
Thank you! I was looking forward to your response to this one. In fact, it was partly influenced by your poem In The Miklat. I was (maybe subconsciously) trying to connect my regular recreational weekend activities with what you are experiencing. I'll leave it there.
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