Green serene,

but in-between

runs the blue

of the Greta,

running fast for May,

tinted bronze with replenished stock.

 

Down by the weeping willows,

where wagtails ponder with a need for insects,

underneath the canopies draping with lavish plenty,

in a dub, deeper by a foot -

he transpires in the brook,

about roughly two foot long,

 

Salmo Trutta,

alias brown trout,

dancing meticulously with the rapid waters' song.

Marked by the creator -  not a spot to spare,

this leopard of aquatic equations,

always stalking his claim to his territory. His haunt.

 

The trees' epidermis is broken by a carbon stranger,

ten feet of black pole perfectly straight,

much to the few saplings envy,

also decorated in fine cotton binding,

this tool of Cast efficiency, sporting the line,

whiplashed across the blistered white foams,

dropping the lure to target. Two inches concealed

snorkelling its way past HIS peremptory vision,

my greenwells Glory. Rippling with mottled hackle. Appetising no!

 

Olives are rising, not in plenty amongst the swarms of midge,

and confused if not for size against the occasional passing Mayfly

HE glides as if in air now and then dashes to the sides of flow,

for whatever morsal he goes and so amply devours.

Though my fly now past four or five times,

he followed but chose to ignore and remained stationary with defiance,

maybe his custom. His whim. Arrogance.

The gold escapes the water as his holiness the Sun goes dim.

And then the rain lets rip.

Perhaps they'll be another day....