A Box of Fishing Flies

Congregation of deception, Sitting in darkness and decked out In fineries: the silk, the fur, Feathered dull or bright, just waiting To be called by river’s song, rings Of rises yet hoped into fish. Some are returned warriors, Blunted and twisted out of true, Though truth’s a lie for them and blends Somehow beyond a memory. Some new-made catchers of the eye, Wait for their opportunity to come. A hundred hopes and falsehoods rest Under one hinged roof, lined up To do or die, and every one With a sharp point of view, A heartbreak to be driven home.