LES WICKS

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THE FISHERMEN

I wish the teenage me
could see us older men -
fractured rime of shyness/
birdcall warning & invitation in our chaotic
nests of lives half finished, half lived.

As fishermen, our boat defines us.
The rods have life only in our hands.
To actually see the trout
with its filament arc of fin
slash of quaking gill.

Eyes settle on the surface,
its pillow of drift.
Then, like the Cape Barren Geese,
move to the layer below - stop!
A kelpie mind
is less than useful.

Webs of the extraordinary hang
between starved & splintered twigs.
Hard enough (in all things) to be "normal".

The teenage me
would recognise the other half.
Encouragement from some things done
then a gravel-shaking head
(I was an "old" young man)     "Did he never learn"?

Summary, epitaph always
too much thinking, not enough fun.
Reticent, weak but adaptive...
a few good stories.

This hotel is built around its fireplace, photos marking
some Vice-regal visit fifty years ago. Ralph and I are feeling very
zen
around a bunch of country men
who haven't seen an Asian since their war.
The regulars sail these walls.

We are intent.
When the publican comes
to stoke the fat gold fire
he twitches towards our talk
of winter flowers & rust.
His older smile suggests
our timeline needs more yet
of wisdom, pain & wear
before it's rich enough to bear.