Angler

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.