Blossom in Waiting.
thanks for your letter and apologies for the long overdue reply, the first song of spring choked by the wind from the north, the sharpened quill frozen in the inkwell, as have passed several whitsun weeks of fairs, floods and famines, the fly rod unpacked, the riverbank untrodden. closed season dreams remain such, the thought of haunting the wey every other tuesday after the dust-up of kempton a fantasy, the march browns hatching at midday but the trout staying well out of sight and the queue for the chip shop lengthened by one more weary angler at lunchtime.
the beech trees at the foot of the heath are out in all their splendour painted on a cold sky like a fresh venables canvas, light leaves under dark, boughs creaking in the late frost. the last few mornings have been ones watching the sunrise in the wing mirrors as i take to the lanes to hold up my lot number in drafty auction houses and drink tea in lay-by’s whose burger wagons fly flags of st george bleached white by the winter just past.
on sunday coming where we shall be down by the stadium it will be one calendar month until the opening of the season, a day when jack hilton bobble hats can be seen on the 214 bus, lines will be cast once the whistle has been blown at midnight.
between now and then a mayfly hatch if we are lucky and the continuation of a casual fly fisher’s dream.