The Angler

T is for

The Angler
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Down by the river the angler sits
Eyes glazed by the biting wind
And the lager
Two hours of Hemingwayesque battle
Have produced no fish for this old man
The rod stays stock still
Rain spatters on the umbrella
And rattles tunelessly on the empties
He pulls another can from the bag
And with knuckles white
And fingers red raw
He pulls the ring
Releasing gas into the dreich air
Are the fish laughing down there?
In the rippling grey water
Hidden amongst the dancing weeds
Like fugitives from his hook
Suddenly the rod twitches
The old man wakes with a start
And grabs the rod
But slips....dammit
So he pulls and lands the fish
As the bag of lager falls into the river
A drink for those fish left
To toast their unfortunate friend
He packs up
Chest puffed with pride and with
Proof for his wife
Homeward the wind at his back
Certain he can hear the fish singing: