The art of fishing

Some folk fish mid-stream, standing

in the middle of the flow, whirring long lines out

to scrawl and loop against the sky.

Others paddle off in battered boats, cast crusts

of hope to lure the shadows from the depths – or

congregate and solemnly compare

their rods and reels, boast of ones that got away,

then row home empty-handed.

But me? I lie alone, low in the shade, silent

as the rock, my body rooted as a mountain ash.

Long hours I listen to the grass

play chinese whispers with the breeze.

When darkness wraps around me like a shawl

I stare into the midnight pool, eyes candle-bright,

until a slash of silver swims towards my light,

I gauge the moment’s right, plunge

my hands into the numbing depths, haul

the living poem to the page.

Magi Gibson

First published in Cencrastus, 2000