Fishing on a pier
In midsummer haze
With my grandfather,
Out on a misted lake,
The blues of the waters,
Stirring, deepening blues
Of drizzled sky, we baited
Our hooks, lapping waves
Caressed the drowsy pillars
We rode and so, were reminded,
That there is one colour for both
Joy and sadness. Over slow time
Different fish appeared, bass, pike
Trout, hornpout, but mostly the rangy
Perches, scaly pugs of yellow-orange,
Like slabs of weighted, tiered sun, they
Fought on the reel with high crested spine,
A quiet, noble ferocity.
Later, moving lethargically
In the grey of our pail, like broken beads
Of water shed from the morning sun,
How I wanted to toss them all back.
In New England, “hornpout” is a local name for a catfish, it is also known as a bullhead, and horned pout.