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john-brimblecombePoems
Fishing with Fergie Stomping through sodden brown fields rods bounce in tune to our march. Maggots dance in Tupperwared silence till we crouch out the wind. Salmon. Majestic, leaping salmon. Surging to spawn in embryonic memories. Enticed by streamers and nymphs, Griffiths Gnats and Woolly Buggers, battle Trylene Big Game Mono, lean silky body trembling, taut. One day, we agree, one day. For now we watch the luminous tip of the Bodied Waggler, feeling for strain as the maggot twists and stretches Pierced by the bait-cast, come and get it. Tench or bream, (but not pike, please no pike). Bite, come on, bite. BITE. I know you’re there in the murk. Tea, passed steaming hot with a plastic taste. Earthy fingered sandwiches. Our eyes never move. Was that a tug? Yes? YES! Pull hard! Reel in, quick. Snap! Next time, my friend. Next time.
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Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
Fishing with Fergie
Fishing with Fergie Stomping through sodden brown fields rods bounce in tune to our march. Maggots dance in Tupperwared silence till we crouch out the wind. Salmon. Majestic, leaping salmon. Surging to spawn in embryonic memories. Enticed by streamers and nymphs, Griffiths Gnats and Woolly Buggers, battle Trylene Big Game Mono, lean silky body trembling, taut. One day, we agree, one day. For now we watch the luminous tip of the Bodied Waggler, feeling for strain as the maggot twists and stretches Pierced by the bait-cast, come and get it. Tench or bream, (but not pike, please no pike). Bite, come on, bite. BITE. I know you’re there in the murk. Tea, passed steaming hot with a plastic taste. Earthy fingered sandwiches. Our eyes never move. Was that a tug? Yes? YES! Pull hard! Reel in, quick. Snap! Next time, my friend. Next time.
Written by
john-brimblecombe
English
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
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