To Catch a Fisherman
The mists of dawn, the painter’s palette,
Byron’s mood and the river, the poet’s banquet
Ghostly swans glide in and out of my vision
Creating waves of pollen flotsam
This poet’s inspiration and my freedom
It is here that the pregnant dragonfly
Dips her egg filled body under the surface
Entering a world of myth and danger
The gamble of her life
For there are eyes watching, waiting,
The trout is looking for its next victim
A rise and the dragonfly is no more
Clinical, no sorrow, no regrets, no apologies
For nature answers to no one
All around water boatman skim the surface looking on,
Like referees from some epic hockey match
Another splash and another victim,
This time the trout, for the pike rules this domain
Nature in all her magnificence,
No compassion, no judgements the circle of life complete
As in war the chain of command cannot be ignored
And now I am part of that chain
My trout, my trout, come to my fly
For I am hungry and I have the priest
To hear your confession
And as another day passes I have witnessed
That what you cannot see
For I am a fisherman
And in waters reflection, I know
That I too will die
But not before I have seen another dawn
On the river, where nature was born
Where spirits live and souls die,
For all are equal, in my mind’s eye.
In the distance the city
Where spirits die in pollutions berry
And souls drab and resigned
Live In concrete boxes, prisoners of their own mind
Chasing elusive wealth and corruption,
Disciples of violence and prostitution
And through the window, in the distance
The river flows with a clear conscience
A supreme being, incorruptible and true
Whose spirit is home to many creatures?
And when the cities have turned to dust and man
Has murdered his last born son
She will be here flowing gently to the sea
In love with nature, for eternity.
And when I am gone
My spirit will return
To be a part, of the river
A ghostly Angler
To be seen on the mists of dawn
A reminder of what has gone
Witnessed by these ghostly swans.
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