On a summer night you can hear the snap
of a jack
ripples in the silver twilight
pursed lips towards the moon of mayflies dawning
in the still heat of evening making love
on the fatal attraction of
discarded waders
in a life so short and a dusk so long
and as blackness envelops
the memories cling like arms
passion sated
the whip of line laid low on water
stalking, still
the stream of consciousness unabated
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
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