The bright summer moon, turns night into day,
the dawn chorus starts, but should be hours away.
The hunter rises, for he cannot sleep,
then gets out of bed with an excited leap.
He yawns, rubs his eyes, then stretches his arms,
then looks out of the window, to the far off farm.
The lights are flickering, the farmer is up,
his herd to milk, for our morning cup.
The hunter washes, then creeps downstairs,
fills the kettle, his breakfast, prepares.
He finishes his meal, with some tea and toast,
then out of the house, he moves like a ghost.
Across the fields, moving with ease,
to the riverbank and, the silhouetted trees.
He’s getting closer, on this moonlit morn,
the warm summer breeze, gently swaying the corn.
He hears the river, trickling over the stones,
through bulrushes and reeds, he carefully roams
Surveying the water, to see fish rise,
then onto the leader, his best fly he ties.
Now in position, he’s ready to cast,
getting lighter by the minute, the sun rising fast.
flicking the rod, pulling out line,
it glides through the air, he is picking his time.
A ripple appears, the surface breaks,
the fly lands short, another cast he makes.
This time upstream, the fish hides in weed,
but caught by a Heron, that swoops down for his feed.
‘I just don’t believe it’, our hunter does cry,
then creeps downstream, for another try.
A Brown Trout lurks, under an overhanging limb,
a precisely cast fly, lands direct in its swim.
Meanwhile the sunlight, glistens through the trees,
the heat from the sun, forms a mist around the reeds,
The skylarks soar, greeting this beautiful day,
the Cuckoo’s call, heard from miles away.
The hunter he stares, as the fly floats along,
as a Blackbird nearby, sings its cheerful song.
Closer and closer to the trout, gets the fly,
skulking in the shadows, under the bright blue sky.
With a whip of the tail, the Trout makes a move,
the ‘Red Bristol Hopper’, looks too good to lose.
He goes for the bait, the line goes tight,
this Brownie is big, and ready to fight.
The rod it bends, he smiles with glee,
splashing and leaping, the fish tries to break free.
It starts to tire, and is soon in the net,
he removes the hook, but its not over yet.
He admires his catch, and is proud to say the least,
then reaches into his pocket, to administer the ‘Priest’.
But with one big thrash, the fish leaps away,
making a break, to fight another day.
© CPP-RHV. 24 February 2010.