To Catch a Fisherman

The mists of dawn, the painter’s palette, Byron’s mood and the river, the poet’s banquet Ghostly swans glide in and out of my vision Creating waves of pollen flotsam This poet’s inspiration and my freedom It is here that the pregnant dragonfly Dips her egg filled body under the surface Entering a world of myth and danger The gamble of her life For there are eyes watching, waiting, The trout is looking for its next victim A rise and the dragonfly is no more Clinical, no sorrow, no regrets, no apologies For nature answers to no one All around water boatman skim the surface looking on, Like referees from some epic hockey match Another splash and another victim, This time the trout, for the pike rules this domain Nature in all her magnificence, No compassion, no judgements the circle of life complete As in war the chain of command cannot be ignored And now I am part of that chain My trout, my trout, come to my fly For I am hungry and I have the priest To hear your confession And as another day passes I have witnessed That what you cannot see For I am a fisherman And in waters reflection, I know That I too will die But not before I have seen another dawn On the river, where nature was born Where spirits live and souls die, For all are equal, in my mind’s eye. In the distance the city Where spirits die in pollutions berry And souls drab and resigned Live In concrete boxes, prisoners of their own mind Chasing elusive wealth and corruption, Disciples of violence and prostitution And through the window, in the distance The river flows with a clear conscience A supreme being, incorruptible and true Whose spirit is home to many creatures? And when the cities have turned to dust and man Has murdered his last born son She will be here flowing gently to the sea In love with nature, for eternity. And when I am gone My spirit will return To be a part, of the river A ghostly Angler To be seen on the mists of dawn A reminder of what has gone Witnessed by these ghostly swans.