Fishing Time

the still lake stretches like cellophane as night fast nudges light bees buzz and rush then switch the mute switch, time oozes like treacle or an iced stalactite slowly stratifying in secret caves the stick float suddenly stills nippling the surface with red, as whirlpools weave wavelets then gently lap and loosely laze a pregnant pause pulsates as line tightens and magenta tongue tip swallows silently slowly into the surging mystery misted by laced moss dressed in silk gowns. Yet beneath the surface like Excalibur shimmering silver, a fish breaks the lilting lake.