Before the Fish

~ SamF ~ 2 Comments

In early August, the slight wrinkle on his brow,

Pushes sweat into long dusty piles,

Rows of summer’s habits.

Like the year before last

and the year before that.

His is the furled brow of finally remembering.

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While her eyes, sometime gone askance,

Sagging with days gone long and

Now stale afternoon romance,

Still sparkle,

Like the playground at recess,

When the laughter carries

To those still inside.

Her glance is long and turning,

Letting go of a breath.

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In a matter of weeks,

fixed on bright sky,

That precious harbinger of hope,

And the only window left,

They will cue up old records,

rehearse the dances,

Recall the words,

And sit, waiting.

The Screen Door: Early Impressions Revisited

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The screen door,

closing two-clapped

rickety wood

Gone forgotten,

Unheard over years.

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It still signals flies,

kids chasing kids,

And mockingbird songs

In fig tree shade.

Summer’s paradise and ease with just that:

A clappety-clap.

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Inside:

Suppertime fly on sliced red tomato

Red onion avoided.

Chores, wanderings, and a boring anxiety

All screened in nicely,

with a pantry full of secrets,

And secret pantries,

To fill in the gaps between claps.

Who knew?

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The movement: her book title words,

Sentences concealing poems,

Complete and tidy,

All wrapped in a pause,

Searching for one more verse,

Lines of freedom etched across

Long marks on a working floor.

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Yet, her life, in minutes, days or odd moments

Could hang up on the tiniest things,

And go spinning neatly out of control,

Just barely.

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Clappety-clap goes the thin wood frame,

Rickety against the unshakable,

While the pantry door sits open:

There is work to be done now.

Sketching religion, love and time in the valley (V.1)

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The old hipster church in the trees had long gone bad and soured.

It was a long time coming, alot of thought went into the decision,

But, really, you just turned and went,

Staggering down the path to the river bank.

I’d see you standing there, ankle deep in the cool water,

On a hot summer afternoon just as the breeze kicked up the valley.

You couldn’t hear the moaning procession that was soon to follow

From the trees, down the trail, and to the water.

Fortunately, you were long gone then.

The breeze had carried you off: like the last stammering wailings

Of tired parishioners fading into the evening woods,

never to be heard again.

I don’t see you there anymore,

But sometimes, in the morning, I hear the crack of a twig in the woods,

And wonder if you sit there,

waiting.

I walked to that place once, climbing back up to the high place

Where it once stood, and wondered if there were tears,

Did you hold them back?

Or let them fall to the water, to float downstream.

Or maybe you are now the song of birds, the orange of pumpkin,

The splashes made by moving water.

Maybe you are the cackling laughter from the old lady that lives in the shack,

Just around the bend.

Time of the Valley

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 Away from the coast, for several days in June,

Where the river bends broad and wide, Spring holds on,

Giving way to an old vibrancy still lingering in the valley.

A chance morning rain: warm, brief, light as a whisper,

Sharpening the songs of birds and painting the last flowers across fields

Between dwellings added on to over the years.

The kinds of homes that either gather character, or become ramshackle.

If you are not careful, this seems like the way it always should be.

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Look across the green fields, and see an old tractor here and over there,

Now rusted fossils of moving days, times of hard work,

And lazy Sunday afternoons, when kids would skip stones across the river.

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A metal-sided shop, banged, dented and dulled,

Held fast by the thorns of blackberry vines,

Now only kept clear near a single door:

An oil stained opening to more rust, stories and passed toils.

Somewhere, in there, sometime, things just stopped.

But the smell of grease still lingers, over the tinge of mice and cobweb.

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You don’t have to be careful in August, days of relentless sun and heat:

Wilting everything into tangled, thorny masses

Covering once proud fences, and clutching old projects

Long enough for them to wither of procrastination on hot, windless afternoons,

When soil bakes into hard, aching sticker-ridden swaths,

And old metal sorely creaks and groans,

Thirsting for the first cheating rain of late September.

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If you are not careful, and forget this time,

When the soul of this place was able to pause

And exhale the long breath of relief,

you will be swallowed whole in this empty celebration.

Bentley_Ridge_Round_Valley

Swain’s Flat Draft 2

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Still trying to distill my mental sketches…. a bit redundant from the previous notes, nonetheless a work in progress….

Inland, the river bends broad and wide,

Giving way to a brief valley.

If you are careful, the soul of this place still lingers

Though it is hidden amongst a scattering of dwellings,

The kinds of dwellings that are added on to over the years

And either gather character, or become ramshackle

If you are not careful.

Wonder through here during the middle of May,

What hasn’t been said of Springtime in the valley?

Warm morning rain, light as a whisper,

Painting flowers across fields between the homes,

And sharpening the songs of birds.

But look closer and see an old tractor here and over there,

Rusted fossils of days when things moved here,

In the space between hard work and lazy sunday afternoons,

When the kids would skip stones across the river.

The metal-sided shop, banged, dented and dulled, surrounded in blackberry vines,

Only kept clear near a single door,

An oil stained opening to more rust, stories and passed toils.

Somewhere, in there, sometime,

Things just stopped,

But the smell of grease still lingers over

The tinge of mice and cobweb.

You don’t have to be careful in August,

The valley, it’s soul, is swallowed whole

By days of relentless sun and heat

That wilts blackberries into tangled, thorny masses

Covering once proud fences,

And soil baked into hard, aching sticker-ridden swaths

That will deny any invitation until the first cheating rain

Of late September.

Sun and heat that buckles metal, peels paint

And forgets the 16 days in May

When the soul of this place was able to pause

And exhale the long breath of relief.

Sketching Swain’s Flat

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The seed of a poem was planted while passing through the small valley flat that borders the river. I was taken by a sense that an old vibrancy still lingers here, but is continually swallowed whole each year. My sketches here aren’t intended to offend anyone, as this is a special place. For several days in May, spring gushes forth dotted with a warm, light rain in the morning that sharpens the calls of birds, brightens flowers in the grass and seems like this is the way it always should be. But today this seems an empty celebration, and echoes of old summers still rattle the metal siding of an old shop, once a celebration of new business, prosperity, hope:

When Friday night beers lasted into the wee hours,

Giving way to a lazy sunday, maybe church and an afternoon alongside the big pool where the trail runs down to the river bar.

Now, tractors, rusted fossil heaps of dreams of better days,

And the old metal shop building that will groan again

in the summer heat soon to follow,

Now blackberry vines reach, before they wilt and tangle their thorny grasp around rusted projects

Along with everything else, on hot, windless afternoons.

All this has gone forgotten, or left for other times and new places, or just stopped.

It’s hard to tell on days like today.

Soon, summer will surely bake the ground into a hard, aching cracked memory

Of the place we see today,

And the old shack at the back of the field, quiet today

Again. The residents might stir once or twice,

But, passing by, we can’t help but wonder if they too lie in tangled heaps

Of the memories of life, family and stories that once filled the valley.

Now, while the river still runs fresh and cool, they haven’t noticed, or woken,

still sleeping hoping that these days are a dream and the 16 days of May

are just the soft pillow to whittle away their time.

When the River Went Away – Part IV – Afterwards

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The mockery of their happiness lingered into the years

Long after the places they lived had blown away across the fields

I can’t remember the tree when I visited them then,

But now its heavy branches reach out, holding this place

In mid-summer, when the grass turns golden yellow,

When the old men change topics from weather to iced tea perhaps,

Someone lingers through the field, stopping here and there

And I wonder if they are standing on the places where the lives

Of an old couple passed through, holding hands, laughing,

Bereaving and all the things that get marked in subtle ways

And now cause people to pause in their steps and look across.

When the visitors came back from the field, their eyes are focused

But easy, in the way that walking across time can do.

Five Days

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Day 4: The platform at the bow of the boat has become a dance floor and my casts are honed and polished, perhaps like a baseball pitcher in mid-game stride: dialed in and dealing.

Near highest tide, late morning, a trio of fish round the point, cruising a now familiar avenue that routes them up onto the flats for finicky, frenetic lunchtime eating. They are shouldery permit, double digit fish with the black sickles of their tails sometimes shivering above the water’s surface as they come up into the shallow water and gain full show over white coral sands. The cast lands squarely ahead of their path and a hushed “Sweet!” from captain Oliver. The crab flutters down to rest before a short, slow strip to imitate fleeing prey. The fish swim unbothered onwards and a second strike to the trio is met again with no interest. Day four plays out with Oliver’s gentle admonition, “It’s crunch time, mon.” Let’s get a fish. Later that night Oliver would replay the scenario to his brother: spot-on casts to refractory fish. And I would joke “the best we can do is make the best cast to them because they probably won’t eat it anyhow.”

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In my mind, I script out the proud honor of five days in southern Belize and no fish to show for it. The first day jitters, out-of-practice fish spotting, leading to a shot at an unseen fish, guided only by Oliver’s “Eleven o’clock sixty feet. Just cast!” followed by “Perfect! Streep, streep” and ending with a tail, grab and a tippet breaking like thread – some unseen knick in the line ended the game on day one before it was even started. Later there would be the follows and Oliver’s reassuring “Sweet, mon! This is it! Streep…. he’s on it…” only to turn away uninterested, or spooked- jumbo fish grubbing headlong into turtle grass, tails glistening in the sun, that spook at the flash of line in air, or the sweep of arm as a long backcast loads up for a precision delivery to the boil of a fish long gone.

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Dinners pass with small time chit chat and feeble attempts at comparing life in this small town with life in my own small town. The fishing is measured up against winter steelhead fly fishing where success is celebrated one hard-earned fish at a time and fishless days are part of the deal. Despite the lack of fish, adverse weather, and a string of frustrations, we can’t wait to get up and do it all over again. Tempering the challenge is a succession of fresh grilled snook, fried conch, plantains and shrimp filling our bellies at night while cool melon and salsa infused burritos beckon afternoon naps. But we press on through the days, each day bringing up a fish-friendly high tide late morning followed by intense afternoon winds that demand everything from simply staying afoot on the bow of the boat to unloading long shots headfirst into the wind at fish quickly seen in the trough of the wind-driven waves ripping across the flats.

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This is all-consuming fishing. Fish seem to appear when thoughts drift to what might be happening back home, or whether my handkerchief is adequately covering the back of my neck in the hot afternoon sun. And, so the hours pass intently staring across the coral flats, studying textures, guessing depths, discerning shapes and sometimes catching the fleeting glimpse of permit only after it is too late and the boat it too close for a decent shot. There is no time for replaying the past or scripting the future. Everything is happening right now and the applicable universe encompasses a radius of approximately 100 feet off the front half of the boat. Add a little wind and everything moves and enchants, like the call of siren diverting us from the empty gaze we strive for. You either see it or you don’t. There is no time for study here.

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Early afternoon day 2: A robust permit pushing 20 pounds works diligently around a large head of coral, it’s shuddering tail visible from far off – one of the few times to get set up, size up and contemplate the cast. Better yet, it works a small area around the coral and there’s even a moment to breathe as Oliver poles the boat into casting range.

“Sweet mon!” The cast lands to the side with a small “plop,” catching the fish’s attention immediately, as the crab lands on bottom the fish tips down and inhales the crab fly. I pull the line taught to drive the hook home just as the fish turns and heads around the backside of the coral, breaking the line like a spider web. Game over.

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Day 3 dawns to thunderstorms and heavy rain and we head out under dark skies and flat, glassy waters as the rain tails off to the east. Under the slate grey skies, underwater visibility is tough and we look far across the flats hoping for tails to give away the presence of fish. Finally, by early afternoon, the clouds give way to the great aquarium that sunshine and windless conditions allow for. Fish are now easily spooked as we can see them at great distances underwater, but so, too can they see us – a few follows and many more spooked. The fishless trip begins to script itself out after day 3. How would I pitch this to friends? I knew I had the fortitude to laugh about it and not be deterred, but would they understand? Would they really get that this was only partly about catching fish? Would they understand the presence, focus and tenacity this requires? Worse yet, would they understand this really is how some people choose to unwind and relax? I begin to second guess the whole thing as the boat glides over a pair of fish happily grazing over knee-deep flats, me missing them entirely in my moment of day dreaming delerium. It’s uncanny how these fish can appear when you’re momentarily somewhere else.

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Day 5 comes around as routine and rehearsed. I’ve gotten a sense of the flats, how the fish are moving across them, where they come from, and where to focus my gaze. We quickly bounce between a half dozen flats seemingly empty of fish, but early on a tide that will come mid-afternoon now. By late morning, a well rehearsed routine between guide and angler, spotting and casting has shown a dime-sized crab fly to five uninterested permit. Oh sure, maybe there was a brief moment of interest, but at this point, it was all meaningless: nothing to the boat. Oliver reminds me half serious “It’s the eleventh hour, mon,” and, after a long pause, “no pressure though.”

At 11:30 we round the point to begin the pole down a long narrow and now familiar windward flat. The afternoon breeze is beginning its routine and within an hour the ante will kick up several notches as wind, sun angle and footing will combine mental challenge with physical rigor for a final, demanding afternoon. As we round the point the tails are there. A group of small permit feeds aggressively up the flat, heading towards the boat. They move quickly and there will be time for only one cast before they see the boat and bolt. The crab lands short but online and the fish approach rapidly. Whether they see the boat first or the crab will be a toss-up. I crouch low on the bow as I slowly strip the fly. I see one of the fish pounce ahead, tip, tail and grab the crab. FISH ON!

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Five days and one hard-earned fish.

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