by Andrew Greig.
A long climb, long day fishing
alone and unseen below Cul Mor.
A long descent till – soft grunt –
legs drop behind the wheel.
So present now, so many years ago,
that day at the urging of one friend
(Loads of trout, you cannot fail!)
in memory of another.
You might say little happened there.
A stag with broken antler-tips strolled by;
All day one buzzard rode the updraught;
round noon, rattle of stones without cause.
Casts swirled in the corrie’s breeze,
you knelt to unfankle empty hooks.
Just once, living flesh leapt high –
a circle widened, shone, was gone.
Close that day, compress the rod.
Coil and box the cast. It’s done.
You sit a while as you sat then,
entire, unbroken, filled with sky.