Crouched around the rim, in clusters,
kids with buckets. Wordless,
I watch a tussle of wits.
They’ve come equipped, these hunters,
brought string and safety pin.
A bolt becomes makeshift sinker,
and bacon is saved to bait
their bottom dwelling prize.
Stalk-eyes see the would-be catch,
alert to a murky rip-off.
Risk is palpable, approached
through stealthy pincer movement.
Two schools of landing coexist:
some jerk and swing, flailing
in search of an instant answer,
others draw their lines patiently
by inches to the surface.
The day’s take plays scrabble,
captive in some plastic prison.
Canoe Lake strollers pause and peer,
in a barnacled mantle
make out the moon’s crust. Maybe.
Or count lost legs of veterans -
regrown at moulting season
like veins around a tumour.
Afternoon, and ice-cream,
bring this contest to a close.
Tipped out across a concrete page
my jottings scuttle to the edge,
spill over and sink without trace.
No comments:
Post a Comment