Editorial Board Selection ~ March 15th 2013

Angler by Richard Moorhead

There is nothing like the tug, 
both sudden and so full of slowness.  
Shorn of noise 

it has the down deep 
stumbling of mouth; the savagery 
of hooked lip; catgut 

numbing as it pulls 
through reeds.  The grease of river 
coppered with a wisp of trout blood. 

It becomes this heartstring 
in a bell ringer’s hands, forever sinking 
down while the old rod bends.  

Eyelets – that could pitch like boats - 
are bound firm.  Here, near the tip, 
is the heavenly bend -willow, 

varnished Portuguese brown.  His
knife-blade oiled in a leather pouch
sharpened on his Dad’s old stone.