Fisherman’s Lament.
I am running out of words
like an angler on the bank,
trying every lure and bait
to cast and pull you in.
Stood on trampled ground,
where full of net has been
and scratching furrowed
brow to second guess the
wind.
I see bob and weave below
the surface of the pond,
spying ripples on the turn,
and the places they begin.
But there’s no rise of water,
or breaking in the spray.
So now I leave this seek and
strive for paddled shadows
of your fin.
Ah well, if not this evening,
I can wait for another time.
A new approach, a subtler style
and I may yet haul you in.