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
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