The lake is still in the evening sun

A little breeze make the longer grass sway on the bank

and a ripple disturb the surface:

A mayfly lands

A swallow drinks and is gone before I see

With a rattle, a duck takes off from behind the island

Then it is still again

Beneath the reflections are fish

Sometimes - but not yet tonight -

A circle of ripples flows out from a rise

I wait

 

Clyde taught me to fish with a fly

I have tried to cast so well:

His line lands snaking across the water

leaving the lighter leader to drop

the fly - a coachman or a red-tailed gnat -

on the surface near the trout he had watched,

quietly waiting until it was ready to feed.

My line splashes down in a straggle,

the fly - I have a Coch-y-bonddu -

dragging clumsily and with a splash

onto the surface some feet short of the fish

I cast

 

I catch a few on evenings like this

But it is not the catch

But the rhythm of the cast

and the quiet susurration of the line

as I open my hand and it flows from the rod,

the warmth of the sun gleaming off the lake

the peace and tranquillity of the still air

the hovering hum and dart of damsel flies

the plop of a fish some distance away

 the noise of the reeds in the breeze

I love