How Fish bite
I once spent twelve years trying to catch a fish,
In one particular place
Deliberate in my fantasy
Lured on by this water
That fancied a fish.
And when it came,
In the space where afternoon
Begins to turn golden
But long before the time of frogs,
Or the last of summer’s blackberries
Cast their liquored spell,
A slow motion swirl,
A great heaving beacon across the flat water,
Slow motion, now,
In the way that memories become.
The jolt through arm and body
Letting out a great whoop,
Before it went silent again,
And Evening resumed it’s course,
And I stopped counting in years.