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Bob Kimmerling | + Follow Poet |
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Tench

There is a water glint,
just shining through the copse beyond.
Autumn's sinking sun, 
barred by spindle trees and the last 
of summer's brindled reeds 
and sedge and rush that fringe this stilling pond.
.
 
Damp leaves hide a pathway to the lilies 
where green silky weeds sink lower,
and morning and now evening air 
mists from the water's chill, to soften stalk and frond 
until the warming day breaks through the morning still.  
 
This pond had no name to me,
its murky depths unknown, 
one cooling autumn afternoon 
when a schoolboy friend and I
came seeing where the fish might lie.
 
A rod, a reel, a homemade float, 
worms dug and mossed from compost heap, 
bread crusts snuck from the kitchen pantry, 
just three hooks in the tackle box this year
carefully corked amongst the gear.
 
There were no fishing swims, 
no boarded, numbered platforms 
on which to place a folding chair,
or a landing net and rest, 
though enough for lads, if not the best.
 
Most likely we should not be there, 
in this secret place, with scarce a spot 
on which to stand beside the waters edge. 
This was a boy's adventure, to cast our lot 
with wits and skill, to catch, to thrill, or not.
 
A porcupine, that was the quill 
used for a float, with fuse wire ring to the base 
and a punctured piece of rubber band to grip. 
One shot, and one shot to try to cast 
to the promise of a spot.
 
It stood too proud above the water
and swivelled while I watched, 
and watched the slightest tease, 
while rat bumped a clump of bankside reeds 
and sipping birds came close beside
 
to drink their evening water, 
stilled at the dying of all breeze, 
as eyes tricked in failing light, skimmers zipped, 
a dragon fly topped the quill, 
and skaters skipped and braked to still, 
 
meniscus tipped to slender legs 
along their zig zag tacks. 
Was that a fish? Did something move the quill
to a wobble and a ripple, 
to a slide a little to the left as every muscle 
 
tightened to the rod now gently lain to rest?
Then under. So fast a disappearance 
in evening's fading light, 
though young mind to hand's reaction 
found line to rod pull tight and scythe the glassy water

as all gentle life took fright.
Fish! An urgent call to the other, 
down the nearside bank, while holding bending rod 
to steer his catch and clear the snags 
as one foot sank in mud and reel drags
 
latch-hold from the cork-bound shank 
of split cane, and now all that waiting, 
all silent anticipating, might all be found in vain.
But fish holds, as the line restores to tight, 
and to and fro the darting fight 
 
is on. Cane shudders in its bend, 
and snag and tail all play the tune 
of pull and thrust and lunging might 
until at last the struggles wain 
now heading to their end, head up, line gained,
 
head lifting to the surface
though paddle tail still turns, still churns 
up muddy water flumes, and quill ascends, 
and sinks, now here, now there,
as fish strength starts to disappear.
 
Drawn flapping to the muddy bank, a tench,
hoiked safely on to land. Green skin, 
lined pectoral to the shank, a bead red eye, 
and paddle tail, to stroke and wonder 
with a snot-slimed hand, a while to ponder
 
this first of bigger fish, by far, 
not lifted up to scanning eyes with others in a jar. 
Two, three pounds, no experience to tell, 
but slipped back to the stilling pond,  
and with darkness drawing near, a run 
to mothers' suppers, and excited tales to hear.

Copyright © Bob Kimmerling | Year Posted 2021

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