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Poem

There's a dull ache in my casting arm,
But I can't complain everything is still and calm.

I just have to try and try,
To make sure I use the right fly.

There are so many to choose from either dry or wet,
I am going for dry which seems the best bet.

The one I choose I tied myself,
You won't find another on any shop shelf.

It's shiny and green,
And is bound to be seen.

I wind in all of the slack,
Then I cast the fly back.

To the spot I saw the water swirl,
And I thought I saw a big tail curl.

My aim is spot on,
And in an instance the fly has gone.

In an explosion of foam,
At last a trout of my own.

In the sparking shower of green, silver blue,
At last my hopes have come true.

I am content now just the water and me,
And a lovely fresh trout to take home for my tea.

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