winterroom
06-04-2011, 08:45 PM
Hello all,
I am new around here and still working out how everything works. I have been enjoying new posts and also dipping into the favourite poems thread and finding treasure.
I can't see that I can be as prolific as some people round here but I will toddle along at my own pace and post when I can. :thumbsup:
On Loch Morar
We send a spinner flashing behind the boat,
sure that speckled trout will rise from the deep,
hungry for inspiration after a life of nibbling
nothing but flies. Yellow jackets, crewcuts
blue eyes, we are hunter-brothers
and as the eldest I know I will be favoured
by the fish when I take my turn
with the orange line in my fist. But for now,
as the hard thwart numbs my arse,
I steer a course round the island
where our wake washes over the rocks,
and the star moss crowds the edge
of the shadow. Like my heroes
we have made maps, squatted over holes,
clomped the one street of a village
in our gumboots, climbed high enough
to see the green waves at the end
of their long roll from the west.
Like them also, in their books
with dull covers, we leave the womenfolk
to clean our catch at dusk,
and set it to sputter
into the golden heart of the fire
while we share hunters’ tales
with Orion. Later we sink like
Betelgeuse, red -eyed
with wood smoke,
to our heather beds.
Hugh
I am new around here and still working out how everything works. I have been enjoying new posts and also dipping into the favourite poems thread and finding treasure.
I can't see that I can be as prolific as some people round here but I will toddle along at my own pace and post when I can. :thumbsup:
On Loch Morar
We send a spinner flashing behind the boat,
sure that speckled trout will rise from the deep,
hungry for inspiration after a life of nibbling
nothing but flies. Yellow jackets, crewcuts
blue eyes, we are hunter-brothers
and as the eldest I know I will be favoured
by the fish when I take my turn
with the orange line in my fist. But for now,
as the hard thwart numbs my arse,
I steer a course round the island
where our wake washes over the rocks,
and the star moss crowds the edge
of the shadow. Like my heroes
we have made maps, squatted over holes,
clomped the one street of a village
in our gumboots, climbed high enough
to see the green waves at the end
of their long roll from the west.
Like them also, in their books
with dull covers, we leave the womenfolk
to clean our catch at dusk,
and set it to sputter
into the golden heart of the fire
while we share hunters’ tales
with Orion. Later we sink like
Betelgeuse, red -eyed
with wood smoke,
to our heather beds.
Hugh