Fly fishing
Jane Nash: Poem ‘Fly fishing’
I’m fishing this lake,
my fly, a tiny wrapped
hook and feather,
dancing on the surface,
in the cold, quiet.
Relentless, inexperienced.
I cast out over the water.
This metaphor for life does not evade me.
For hours,
my teacher simply observing.
I want to be shown
the angles of line to the sky,
how to tickle a trout if it deigns to appear.
But instead, I’m left to stand.
The wind lifts,
the rain descends.
This metaphor for life does not evade me.