Heat Wave.
A day of baking heat and glare.
Now heavy on the evening air
hang odours from the tranquil lake of summer growth
that make perfume of scents both rank and dank,
particular to place,
of memories just out of reach.
Round ripples fade
where lazy fish and insect meet
and all are drugged to silence by the heat.
Movement is slow,
dreamlike
and when we wake
shall say, although it's just one day,
"Remember?
By the lake in summer?"
I Don't Understand.
The fishermen bring everything beside the lake.
Then wait.
Bivouacked against the weather,
sprawled on loungers, breakfast sizzling in the pan,
fag on the go,
the radio,
landing net and camera ready to record 'the big one'.
"Had him last week!"
The scars are recognised
All the gear.
I used to tickle trout.
No string, no pin,
just my fingers in the water, rippling.
And the taste, cooked in the pan with butter!
The fishermen bring everything beside the lake.
They eat sausages and bacon, crisps and pies.
No fish ever dies.
I don't understand.
Beautiful.
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