The Waiting Game

THE ANGLER and THE WAITING GAME Along the shallow sloping winter bourne The water trickles to the stream to drain The rain-wet fields on bone cold winter morn It’s life held brief by seasonal refrain All summer long it played the waiting game In breath-held stillness trees unmoving stand Except where twig is touched by drip of rain With oaks and elders all across the land A premature tumescence they restrain For sun’s return they play the waiting game Aligned along the margin of the lake Bullrushes stand in arid martial lane No longer from the water do they slake The thirst that will return at Nature’s deign For satiate quench they play the waiting game The angler - bent and clothed in woodland green On river bank he sits alone, no name An allegory of patience, ever seen He troubles no one, none would seek to blame Through seasons all he plays a waiting game